


The Awakening.

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Rugby, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angry John, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Tragedy, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealous John, John - Freeform, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Multiverse, Nonconsenual sex, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Panic Attacks, Rugby, Rugby Captain John, Separations, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock's First Time, Smut, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Top John, Top John Watson, Unilock, Victor Trevor Being an Asshole, noncon, topJohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Sherlock is a University student and he's in trouble  - good thing a handsome rugby player comes along...Unilock with a twist.





	1. Star Gazers and Rugby Players

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John studied Sherlock. He had the slight, gangling awkwardness of a young man newly grown to his full height, but otherwise his movements were elegant, expressive. The moonlight made him look even more like an elf prince than the shadows had, slim and tall and oddly, transfixingly beautiful."

John finished his biology homework and stowed his books and papers in his rucksack. His fingers brushed against the envelope in the inside pocket. His acceptance letter. John was studying medicine at St. Barts in London - for two years now - but he still treasured that letter. It was proof that all the discipline and study had paid off - were paying off. 

And sacrifice. Discipline, study and sacrifice. 

Specifically the sacrifice of his sex life. Nancy, his girlfriend, had recently dumped him for not spending enough time with her. John couldn’t blame her - he really had neglected her. And if he were honest, it was a bit of a relief not to have to find time for her. He was ashamed to realize that while his cock missed Nan rather desperately, he was otherwise unaffected. His head and his heart were untouched.

And if he really needed sex, John knew how to get it. He hadn't visited any of the 'cottages' where men went for anonymous sex in almost two years - not since he'd taken up with Nancy. John really did prefer women and AIDS and hepatitis scared him shitless. But it was there if the pressures of medical school and his coaching job got to be too much. It was always there if he needed it.

He yawned and stretched. It was early yet, not half eight, John wasn’t ready to sleep (not alone anyway). He should stretch his legs after the hours on the bus – as good an excuse as any to join his mates at the pub. And he really should make sure none of the boys got themselves in trouble.

John grabbed his sweatshirt and left the dormitory. It was posher - and quite a bit larger - than his own digs back in London, but he expected these students paid a lot more for their posh education. John didn’t begrudge them, he was doing just fine at St. Barts - the H.R.H. herself was paying his way (in exchange for a few years service). John smiled to himself all the way to the Hanged Man. 

“Cap!” It was Quentin, shouting across the semi crowded pub. “Cap, over here.” John was no longer team captain - he'd been an assistant coach for a couple years now - but the nickname had stuck 

John made his way through the throng and Quentin handed him a pint. It wasn’t the kind John preferred, but he smiled and took it from the massive fist of his teammate.

“Ta, Quent.” He said, taking a sip. Quentin smiled happily – the big prop was the current team captain and the sweetest bloke John had ever met. He was thoughtful, friendly, kind – a genial giant – and a steadying influence in the team. Quent would keep the boys in line. 

John scanned the crowd and counted ten of his players – mostly those who John had expected to see. 

“You checking up on us, Cap?” It was Harris, a tall kid, newer to the team. He had been keeping to himself a lot, John didn’t know him well. He decided it was positive that Harris had joined his teammates at the pub. 

“Course I am.” John said. “Can’t trust the lot of you.” He watched as some of the local students entered the pub. They all seemed extraordinarily handsome and they dressed in artfully shabby togs that somehow fit perfectly. John turned away from them, mentally locating all of his boys in the room. He moved among them, chatting easily, nursing his pint. Occasionally he could hear the pear-y tones of posh accents as more of the local blokes arrived. He sized them up wondering if he’d see any of these chaps on the field tomorrow. Some of them looked sturdy enough.

“Hear your bird took a walk, Watson.” Stanton, of course - he was always looking for weak spots to pick at.

John looked at the taller man evenly. “Yeah.” He said mildly. “Cheers, mate.” Stanton wasn't worth a fight, but John wouldn't back down either.

“She’s fit, that one.” Stanton needled. “You don’t mind if I have a go?”

John didn’t break eye contact. “As long as you treat her right, it’s none of my business.” He said. 

“Jesus, Stanton. Stop being such a bloody git.” Quentin appeared at John's side. “You’re not making a move on Cap’s girl.” 

John left Quentin haranguing Stant. Stanton was a good kid on the whole, but he had a mean streak. He and coach had to be careful with him or he'd sour the team dynamic. His jibe about Nancy hadn’t stung, but Stanton had gotten closer with some of his other insults in the past. John always took care not to react when Stanton scored a hit - he was merciless when he smelled blood. Quentin had made Stanton his special project. That could only do Stanton good. 

There was a slight ruckus across the room – the door to the men’s slammed shut and John caught sight of one of the toffs striding angrily across the room. He left through the main doors, one of them flapping open for long seconds before someone walked over and closed it firmly.

A big chap – almost as big as Quent, but blonde and blindingly handsome – walked lazily out of the bog and looked around. John was sure he was searching the crowd for the angry toff. There was an arrogance about the man that rubbed John the wrong way.

John started rounding his boys up. It didn’t look like there would be trouble, but it was time to start thinking about bed. They were here to play a match tomorrow and John wanted them all to be at their best.

“Just one more.” Harris protested. Bloke liked his liquor, John noted.

“7 a.m. call in the morning, innit.” John said. “You need to be on your game tomorrow, Harris.” 

John herded them all out. Quentin and Stant were arm in arm, the unlikely pair were roommates. Vaguely John wondered if there was more between them, Stanton covering with his relentless attacks. But as long as it didn’t affect the game, it wasn’t John’s business.

It was full dark now, only the lights from the buildings showing the way back to the dorms. John lagged behind, enjoying the cool April air. It smelled good here, outside the city. He stopped and leaned against a tree and gazed at the stars in the clear night sky. The stars weren’t nearly so visible in London. It was beautiful. John sighed and searched idly for Orion.

“If you’re looking for Venus, she hasn’t risen yet.”

John jumped, startled. “Sorry!” He choked. “I didn’t see you there.” He still couldn’t really see the bloke – it was dark and he stood in the shadow of the trees. “What?”

“Venus.” The accent was posh and patronizing. “Venus won’t rise until 23:04.” The man sparked a lighter and John saw dark hair, prominent cheekbones and a cigarette clamped between full lips. “I’d offer you one, but you don’t smoke.” He said.

“I’m not looking for Venus.” John said. He glanced around wondering if the bit of forest was a cottaging area. John suddenly realized that he could maybe get off - let off a little steam. The thought was appealing. 

The first time John had had sex with another man he'd been royally pissed. He'd spent hours at a pub trying to pull from the array of available women and failing. Walking home, John had stopped in a public bog to empty the beer from his bladder. A man had stood next to him at the urinal. John had looked at him with drunken curiosity, made eye contact... and the man had reached over and taken hold of John's penis - which was suddenly erect. John had let the man give him a hand job, he'd even put his own hand on the stranger's cock and stroked it. It had felt amazing - it was so incredibly sexual, so filthy... and so freeing. John could have sex on demand - as long as he had it with blokes. 

He'd gone back to the bog a few weeks later and a handsome gentleman in a bespoke business suit had knelt at his feet and blown him. It wasn't a regular thing, cottaging, but it was always there, always available. It was John's secret ace in the hole.

Long pale fingers plucked the cigarette from between the lips and the toff blew a smoke ring. He had a sexy mouth. John would be up for a bit of a grapple - if the man were up for it. He wasn't certain yet.

“Of course you’re looking for Venus.” Despite the deep voice, John thought the bloke was young. Very young for Uni. “Everyone’s always looking for Venus. You lot love to exclaim about how bright it is.” He gestured at the sky with his cigarette.

“Mm. Is that why you’re out here? Venus?”

“No.”

John locked eyes with the young man, signaling that he was willing if that's what the man was looking for. They could walk deeper into the trees together...

A clatter of voices intruded, louder for a moment as the pub door opened. They were far enough away that he couldn’t make out any words, could barely see the light from the open door. The bloke in the trees stepped farther back into the shadows, becoming invisible again. “Bloody hell.” He swore under his breath, stamping out his cigarette. 

“Holmes!” Two of the posh chaps had started down the path from the Hanged Man, one looking around impatiently, the other calm, watchful. “Holmes!” The impatient chap bellowed. 

The watchful fellow followed him. He was tall and broad with the golden locks of a Greek god, a truly magnificent specimen – John suddenly recognized him as the fellow following the angry toff out of the bog. The arrogant chap.

He spotted John and started his way, sauntering purposefully. John flexed his hands, felt his muscles loosen reflexively, ready for trouble.

“Holmes! Stop being a bloody wanker.” The first fellow yelled as he wandered past John without a second look. His companion regarded John. He stood just slightly too close, crowding John’s personal space.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a thin fellow with dark hair, go by?” The man smiled and John felt the full force of his natural charm and beauty bearing down on him. He had to stop himself from smiling back.

John cleared his throat. “No. I haven’t.” The Greek god had about eight inches on John, something that tended to make men underestimate him. John wondered if this man had made that mistake.

“HOLMES!” The first chap had doubled back. He was carrying a tweed midweight coat over his arm.“C’mon, Trevor, he ain’t here.”

Trevor quieted him with a gesture. “Sherlock, I can smell your cigarette.” He said. “Stop being an idiot.”

With a sigh, the young man stepped out of the shadows. John got a good look at him for the first time – a tall, long-limbed bloke, awkward and coltish, shivering in his shirtsleeves. His unruly hair was a black halo around his pale face, his eyes a crystal blue, his lips sensuously full - he was strange and beautiful. For a moment John thought about Faeries and Elves, the fairfolk of the forests, seductive, magical creatures. Dangerous, uncanny tricksters.... 

“What do you want, Victor?” He asked sharply, breaking the spell. He looked just as unhappy and tense as when he had fled the loo earlier. 

“Let’s go, Sherlock.” Trevor moved closer to the young man and smiled gently, the picture of kindness and reason.

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Go where?” He said softly.

“You wanted to go back to the dorm.” Trevor said. “Let’s go to the dorm.” He spread his hands out in front of him, palms up in appeal.

“You go ahead.” Sherlock said. “I’m... going to smoke a fag.” He pulled his cigarettes out again.

“Sherlock...” John thought Trevor’s patience was wearing thin.

“C’mon, Holmes!” It was the fidgety chap. “It’s getting cold out here.” He brandished the tweed coat - John realized it must be Sherlock's.

“Shut up, Hodges.” Sherlock said without looking at him. He put a cigarette between his lips.

“What, are you going to stay out all night again?” Hodges sing-songed.

“Hodges, do shut up.” Trevor said like he was asking for a favor. Hodges closed his mouth. “Let’s go.” Trevor’s hand descended on Sherlock’s arm.

“I’m... I ... not yet, Victor. Not tonight.” The words were sharp but John heard the hint of panic in Sherlock’s voice. He realized he’d been waiting for it.

“Can I bum one?” John asked. Sherlock blinked at him, surprised. He glanced at Trevor then held out the pack.

Trevor smiled at John. It was devastating – gorgeous and terrifying. “You’re here for the rugby tomorrow.” He said.

“Mm.” John assented, taking the pack. Sherlock had been right earlier, John didn’t smoke. But he didn’t like the dynamic between the two men. 

Trevor turned towards John, stepped back into his personal space. John stood his ground, cocking his head, half question, half challenge. He saw the flicker in the big man’s eyes – John suspected Trevor didn’t find many men able to stand firm in the face of his charisma and intimidating physical presence.

“What’re you doing out here? All alone.” Trevor asked John conversationally. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off John's sweatshirt.

John suppressed a smile – was that meant to be threatening? “Stargazing.” He said. “Venus is due to rise soon.” John took a cigarette and handed the pack back to Sherlock.

“Venus.” Trevor said, glancing at the sky. 

“Do you mind?” John asked Sherlock, stepping towards the younger man as if Trevor weren’t there. Sherlock sparked his lighter and held it out, John put the fag in his mouth and, leaning close, lit it. He touched Sherlock’s hand to hold it steady while he inhaled. When he stood back, Trevor gave him a look of pure hatred. “Yeah, Sherlock and I were just talking about Venus.”

“Bloody hell.” Hodges swore. 

Sherlock lit his own cigarette and sucked on it like it was oxygen. He shot a curious glance at John.

“In fact...” John said. “Sherlock offered to show me. Venus.” John watched Trevor’s face – John was certain he would tell him to back off, stay out of it.

Instead Trevor stuck out his hand. “We haven’t met. Victor Trevor.” The charm was back.

“John Watson.” John said and took the proffered hand. He was ready for Trevor’s crushing grip, he’d expected the display of dominance. John almost laughed as he squeezed and ground the bones in Trevor’s hand against one another. Ruggers are strong, big chaps tended to forget that. “I’m looking forward to Venus rising. I understand it’s, erm, very bright.”

To his credit, Trevor didn’t wince or favor the hand John had mauled. He didn’t look happy however. “Sherlock...” He said with a warning in his voice - he’d make Sherlock pay for John's interference.

Sherlock didn't answer, just stared at his fag as he exhaled a lungful of smoke.

“He’ll be out all night again. Dobkins’ll have his hide.”

“Shut up, Hodges!” Trevor snapped. He reached out to Sherlock and John saw him stiffen. Trevor straightened Sherlock’s collar, his fingers lingering on the shirt front ominously. “Come along now, Sherlock.” He said. 

"No." Sherlock said softly, avoiding eye contact with the bigger man. "I don't want to, Victor."

Trevor took hold of Sherlock's arm - his massive hand easily encircling the lean bicep - and yanked him close, close enough that Trevor's lips were against his ear. "Quit playing games." He hissed. "We're going NOW."

In one fluid movement, John inserted himself between the two men, facing Trevor. "I believe he said 'no.'"

John had a second to savor the look of shock on Trevor's face, then he was being hauled forward by his collar, the big, meaty hand hot against his chin. "Stay out of it, mate." Trevor snarled and stuck the finger of his other hand in John's face. Which was good, it meant he'd let go of Sherlock. "This doesn't concern you."

John broke the finger. He had only meant to incapacitate the big man by twisting his arm using the finger, but he snapped the bone instead, surprising himself as much as he did Trevor.

He recognized the deep, inexplicable well of anger he carried as it washed through him - as a rule, John was scrupulously careful to keep it sublimated, to be the 'nice guy,' mild-mannered John Watson, nothing to see here. To convince himself, along with everyone else, that this anger didn't exist. When he DID feel it, it was shocking - both in its depth and its violence.

John had barely registered his loss of control and he was swinging, hard, his fist connecting with Trevor's square jaw, cutting off the bellow of pain. Trevor had released his hold on John's collar, John stepped neatly in front of Sherlock, shielding him completely, as Trevor reeled from the punch.

John leashed his rage, tamped it down hard. It was like bile in his throat, he desperately wanted it out, wanted to spew it everywhere, take this pompous ponce to pieces... but he swallowed it instead. He'd already done more damage than he was comfortable with, any more and he would have to answer for it.

He flexed his fists and stood down. With a bellow Hodges came at him. He had the tweed coat over his arm still, John would have used it to blind his opponent, hamper him. Hodges wasn't so strategic, he simply rushed at John, probably intending to tackle him. John sidestepped easily, landing a glancing blow to the side of Hodges head as he passed. He ran head first into a tree - he didn't fall, but he stood unsteadily, his balance compromised.

Trevor was eyeing John warily, cradling the hand with the broken finger, panting shallowly, trying not to show the pain it was causing him. It shouldn't hurt THAT much. The finger jutted at an angle that shouldn't have been possible.

"It's dislocated." John said, nodding at Trevor's hand. "Let me -"

Trevor flinched violently away from John's touch.

"Don't be daft." John said brusquely. "I can reduce it. Once it's back in place, it won't hurt near so much. Come on." He held out his hand, all business.

Reluctantly, Trevor let John take hold of the injured hand. John gently examined it, turning it over from the wrist. "Any pain here?" He asked tapping an area on the palm.

"No."

"Good." John carefully pulled the hand into the correct position to relocate the finger. "Ok, on the count of three. One-" John popped the ball back into the joint in a smooth movement.

Trevor bellowed and snatched his hand away. It was an old trick, distracting the patient and reducing the joint unexpectedly - but it worked.

"Tell A&E you have a nondisplaced shear fracture of the proximal phalanx. Most likely you won't need a splint, they'll just tape it to your middle finger. You'll be fine in a few weeks."

"You're going to be in trouble for this!" John was happy to see that Trevor's breathing was more normal, he was experiencing less pain. He hoped he wouldn't have to inflict more to get rid of him.

"I don't think so." John replied. "Or you'll be in trouble too." John jerked his head towards Sherlock. Trevor narrowed his eyes. "Take him -" John nodded towards Hodges. "And go. Now."

"What did you tell him!?" Trevor demanded of Sherlock.

"Nothing." John said moving his body between them again. "He didn't have to - I saw what happened in the pub."

Trevor blanched, but recovered himself quickly. "You're going to regret this." He muttered at Sherlock.

"He isn't." John said. "You try anything like that and I'll break all your fingers. Mate." He smiled unpleasantly.

Trevor glared - for a moment John thought he wouldn't walk away. Then he spat on the ground and stalked off, Hodges scuttling behind - still clinging to Sherlock's jacket.

They disappeared down the twisting path. Sherlock inhaled his cigarette deeply, trying to use the nicotine to steady his nerves. He was staring at John appraisingly, a furrow in his brow.

"That bloke your roommate?” John asked.

“The idiot is.” Sherlock said. "John Watson." It sounded as if he were trying out the name. "Rugby captain - no, coach - second year medical student - good choice, you'll make an excellent doctor, John." Sherlock gained confidence, certainty, as he continued. "You were brought up near London, solidly middle class, but... your father died - no, he's an alcoholic - hard times for the Watsons. But elder brother John helped mum keep it all together. Money's tight - too tight for University and medical school, so scholarships. You're intelligent, focused and you work hard. And you're STILL big brother helping coach keep the team on track. Reliable John. Mild John. Regular bloke John. Always ready to jump in and help. Though you prefer not to use it, you're good with your fists, you've had experience... and training... and no tolerance for bullies. Almost no one sees your dark side, you hide it obsessively. You recently broke up with your girlfriend, but you aren't too bothered about it. 

John blinked. "H-how did you ...?"

"It's obvious." Now Sherlock was dismissive - or trying to be. "I noticed you in the pub with the other ruggers - all of whom defer to you, their coach and former captain. I overhead your mate being an arse about your girlfriend. If the breakup bothered you, you would have been upset. You weren't, but you were ready for trouble. There are well healed scars on your knuckles - experience. You easily got the better of Victor, he has eight inches and 60 lbs on you, and what you did to Hodges - that's training. Then you convinced him to let you treat an injury you had just inflicted. You did so quickly and competently. It's obvious you'll be an excellent doctor.

"Your accent isn't posh, regional or low - middle class London, probably the suburbs. You take care of your clothing and present yourself well, but the style and wear make it plain you've worn them regularly for at least five years. Your one item of new clothing is the team-issue hoodie. So money is tight - too tight for new shirts. The rage you carry - combined with how automatically you assume a duty of care - points to trouble at home. Most likely explanation is an absent or alcoholic father... The amount of rage suggests alcoholism."

"That's.... fantastic!" John was incredulous.

"What?"

"Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary."

"That's... not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Bugger off."

John laughed out loud. It felt good. After a moment, Sherlock smiled with tentative happiness.

"You can do ...that ...with everyone?"

Sherlock shrugged but John had no trouble seeing his pride. "It's simple observation."

"Not so simple, believe me." John said. "Is that why Trevor is gunning for you? He took offense?"

“No. Victor.... Victor .... it's not that.” John regretted bringing Trevor up, Sherlock was again tense, vulnerable, not the self-assured know-it-all who had spoken a moment earlier.

“What DOES he want with you?”

“Victor wants... I can’t go to the dorm, he’ll be there.” John saw Sherlock shudder. 

“Mm.” John heard another group leaving the pub. The cool air wasn’t so refreshing any more - it was too cool. John wished he had a jacket. “So what’s your plan? Stay here all night?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John didn’t like that the kid felt he couldn’t go home. Trevor WAS the sort of bully that would make Sherlock pay for this humiliation despite John's threats. That finger would hamper him for a while, he thought with bleak satisfaction. It was on his dominant hand.

“Look, it’s getting cold.” John said. “Too cold. I’m staying in Lambeth House tonight, in the visitors wing. There’s an extra bed in my room if you want it. It won’t solve whatever problem you and Trevor have, but you’ll be warm at least. You’ll have a safe place to sleep.”

There was no answer. John stood there looking at the sky. He watched the group from the pub walk the path. They didn’t notice him - John realized they must be difficult to see in the dark. Victor Trevor had really been searching. John was glad a man that determined wasn’t lying in wait for him. 

But the young man in the shadows stayed still and silent. Without turning to look, John wasn’t sure he hadn’t crept soundlessly away. Finally he shrugged. “Ok then...” He started toward the path.

“Wait!” 

John stopped and turned. Sherlock was shivering, his hands jammed deep in his trouser pockets making him seem even more impossibly thin and tall. A cheekbone, lips and tip of his nose caught the light - he was strange, otherworldly. A changeling...

“Wait...” He said again, all too human. John realized he’d been holding his breath and expelled the air in his lungs explosively. “...let’s take the long way ‘round...” Sherlock gestured towards the river with one of his large, elegant hands.

John nodded. "Hold on." He said with a sigh. He quickly unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it at Sherlock, who caught it reflexively.

"No, I can't..." Sherlock held it out to John.

"Don't be an idiot." John said firmly. "You don't need hypothermia on top of everything else. That shivering - I'm going to be an excellent doctor, remember, you can trust me."

Sherlock scoffed but donned the sweatshirt. It hung on his thin frame.

They walked briskly up the path, away from the direction Victor Trevor had gone. 

The long way took them along the river. It was bright with the moonlight's reflection and the sh-sh-sh-sh sound of the water was relaxing. Romantic. Had he been there with Nancy, John would have held her hand, kissed her...

John caught Sherlock looking at him - his lips forming a small satisfied smirk as he considered John. John smiled back, wondering what the taller man was thinking. The way he had KNOWN John, known everything about him simply by ... looking at him ... absolutely amazing. 

His thoughts must have shown on his face - Sherlock's smile broadened happily. Then he looked away and the smile faded as his thoughts turn inward.

John studied Sherlock. He had the slight, gangling awkwardness of a young man newly grown to his full height, but otherwise his movements were elegant, expressive. The moonlight made him look even more like an elf prince than the shadows had, slim and tall and oddly, transfixingly beautiful. John would definitely be up for a romp. 

No, he realized, he wasn't - it would be uncomfortable sharing a room after. John had never taken a man to bed, he'd never held a man or kissed him - he hadn't even known their names. He'd keep his hands to himself and his jeans zipped.

"You don't smoke." Sherlock said. There was a question in the statement.

"No, I don't. How did you know?"

"The way you smell."

Fucking hell! The thought of Sherlock SMELLING him made his cock twitch. How close must he have been before John even knew he was there?!

"What you did back there." Sherlock said suddenly sounding less than certain. "That was...good."

"You're welcome." John said, he needed to distract himself from his less-than-appropriate reaction to this man. It was just physical, just because John had been hard up since Nancy left. "I hope I haven't made things worse for you with Trevor."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "I'll deal with that tomorrow."

"I'm sorry - I know you're 'Sherlock,' but I'm not sure... Holmes?"

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock." 

"Is Trevor hazing you, Sherlock?"

"Hazing?" Sherlock sounded surprised. "No. Victor... Victor's my friend."

"With friends like that..." John said.

Sherlock looked confused. "I don't have friends." He said. "Just Victor."

"Don't take this wrong, but your friend's a wanker."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. They walked in silence for a moment.

"Do you mind if I ask what the problem is?" 

"He... in the bog, he wanted..." Sherlock made an odd gesture, sort of a small sweep of his fingers indicating the ground at his feet.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to John. "I saw you in the Hanged Man." He said. "You have friends."

Sherlock had noticed him? "Yeah, sure."

"I don't. I didn't ...before Victor. I like it."

"You like having a friend...OK."

"Yes." Sherlock peered into John's face like it held the answer to a particularly vexing riddle. The sh-sh-sh-sh of the river seemed louder. "You have a lot of friends."

"I have a few. Look, what did Victor do in the loo? What did he want?"

"Sex." Sherlock sighed. "Same as always."

"Oh!" John felt the surprise course through his limbs. Had he intruded on a lover's quarrel? Or just a bad hookup? He felt unaccountably disappointed that Sherlock could have a boyfriend.

"I couldn't. Not there."

"No, I wouldn't want to either." The pub's bog wasn't the sort for cottaging - too small, too busy... "I hope he's not always that big a dick when you aren't in the mood."

"Oh..." The confusion was back. "No, it's easier just to... Victor..." Sherlock's gaze wandered over John, the path, the river. "I've never had a friend."

"Victor's your first boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend?! No... we're not..." Sherlock huffed impatiently. "It's really very simple, John. Victor is my friend and in return I suck his cock."

John stopped walking. "In return?!" John realized he had almost shouted. He calmed himself down. "Sherlock, do you WANT to blow him? Do you enjoy it?"

Sherlock shrugged miserably. 

John took a deep breath, tried to think this through. He had sometimes not understood Nan - she would try to spare John's feelings and would talk around the problem. "Does he KNOW you don't like it?" 

"It's obvious." Sherlock sounded certain... but then he questioned himself. "Is it obvious? Why wouldn't it be obvious?"

John smiled - charmed in spite of himself. "Have you ever refused before tonight?"

"Yes." Sherlock said softly. "He didn't speak to me for a week."

John's outrage felt like a punch in the gut. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, Victor ...is not your friend." John said gently, touching the other man's arm. "He's taking advantage of you."

John watched Sherlock's face harden and age. It was a tough lesson to learn - John had learned it when he was nine, the big boys accepting him into their gang only to laugh at him and leave him behind to take a beating for their mayhem.... John's heart ached for Sherlock, that he had not learned this sooner, that he had to learn it at all...

He squeezed the young man's arm gently. "You have to be careful - you're very attractive, Sherlock, all sorts will try and get a piece however they can ..." John trailed off. 

Sherlock's face was red. "I'm not..." He was embarrassed, angry. Maybe even ashamed. "I'm not...attractive..." He spat the word.

John smiled, he couldn't help it. "You don't even know, do you? Sherlock, you're beautiful." John felt the boy tremble under his hand and he couldn't help it, the thought of Sherlock's body trembling under him as John pushed into him...held him.... 

The blush on Sherlock's cheeks deepened, crystal eyes burned black as he stared at John, looked through him ... for a second John saw the yearning... 

John realized he still had his hand on Sherlock's arm. He pulled back quickly - he couldn't have a go at Sherlock seconds after finding out what Trevor had done to him! He wouldn't.

"How old are you?" John asked starting briskly down the river path again.

"Twenty." Sherlock mumbled, trailing after him.

John turned around and walked backwards for a few steps, examining the young man. "How old are you really?" He said.

Sherlock sighed. "I'll be eighteen in two weeks."

John nodded. "You started at Uni young."

Sherlock smiled without humor. "Yes - I'm third year."

John raised his eyebrows - Sherlock had started Uni at fifteen. No wonder he hadn't ever had a real friend. Or a real date.

"So... you're some sort of genius, then?"

"Obviously."

John chuckled. Sherlock looked startled, then pleased.

They walked along in silence, hurrying to stay warm. The river trail wound through the forests that edged the campus, the trees hiding the buildings. Out here at night, one could forget the University was even there. The sylvan beauty reinforced Sherlock's resemblance to a faerie, a fay elf princeling sporting among the mortals... John shook himself - he was never this fanciful.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was hushed. He had stopped in a little clearing by the river and was staring at the sky. When John approached, he put his hand on John's shoulder and leaned in close - when he spoke, John could feel his breath, warm on his ear. "There." He said, pointing at the sky. "Venus."

It WAS bright, and big - a huge, shining star low in the sky, near the horizon. "It's lovely." John murmured.

"Another planet... another world, closer to Earth than any other. As a child I fancied that Venusians watched Earth rise in their sky as we watched Venus."

"Poetic..." John realized his hand was on Sherlock's waist, he could feel the man still shivering slightly in the cold night. It would be easy to pull this strange man into his arms...

"Idiotic - Venus' atmosphere is too thick to see stars through. If a creature adapted to the conditions there even had eyes or sight as we know it, it would see only fog."

John laughed. "When I was a kid I thought the stars were up there to keep the moon man company."

Sherlock smirked at John, his hand still on John's shoulder. He's going to slide his hand behind my neck and kiss me, John saw it in his face. Would John like that? Kissing another man? Did he want that? 

But the moment passed, Sherlock looked away. John cleared his throat and stepped closer to the river, letting go of Sherlock's waist. 

"Venus looks like good company for the moon man." John said, cursing himself for saying something so stupid. And Jesus, what was he thinking? Kissing? A man! And the lad was only seventeen - even if John wanted it, he was too young. Five years would be nothing ten years from now, but it wasn't nothing now. "We must be getting close to Lambeth House. How long is this path?" 

"Seven point two kilometers, end to end. We aren't walking near that far, of course." Sherlock said following John down the trail. "It's used for jogging and hiking in daylight." John had nothing to say to that. "We're almost there." Sherlock added.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, John trying to remember what exactly had inspired him to intercede on this kid’s behalf. What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t put up with any bullying or hazing on the team - and he had found himself wading in to put a stop to that kind of bloody nonsense before. He had been standing up to bullies his entire life – amazing how many boys and men thought they could pick on the short bloke. John was good at it, defusing bullies or fighting them if he had to, he’d certainly had enough practice. 

Trevor’s manner had rankled. And Sherlock had been afraid, John didn’t care for that at all. But walking next to Sherlock, he was uncomfortably aware that this wasn’t a lost waif or a damsel in peril... he might be in over his head with Trevor, but Sherlock was casting a spell on John.... the unruly curls, the slopes of his cheekbones, the long, silvery neck... Enough! Just stop it now. He told himself.

John could see the younger man relaxing as they silently entered the building - he finally felt safe. Trevor had really done a number on Sherlock. Despite the complications, It had been right to help him.

However, he didn’t feel up to explaining to his team – or the head coach – why he was bringing a young, attractive stray back to share his room, innocent though it may be. He stopped the other man with a touch. 

“Do me a favor.” John said. “I’m in room 128, at the end of the hall. Here’s the key. I want to look in on some of the chaps, can you go to the the room? Make yourself comfortable.” If the kid walked down the hall like he belonged here, no one would question it. And no one would notice when John went into the same room. Probably. 

The crystal eyes studied him briefly – John felt like they saw right though him. Most likely they did. But Sherlock nodded, took the key and walked away. 

John watched from the entry hall, waited until he had made it almost to the room before he started down the hall himself. 

Several of the doors were still open, the boys congregating in one of the rooms where, John realized, Harris was hanging halfway out the window, two of his teammates holding his legs. John entered as the boys whooped and cheered. John couldn’t tell what exactly was going on, but it hardly mattered. He rapped loudly on the door.

“Oh, hey Cap.” said the boy closest to the door. “Oi! Cap’s here!” He shouted over the din. The cheering died quickly, replaced by a buzz of whispers by the window. Harris was hauled in looking sheepish. 

“Cap, we were just...”

“I don’t care.” John cut him off. “About time you blokes turned in, yeah? We have a six am training run that you all have to be up for...”

There was a general groan. “C’mon, Cap...” Someone protested. 

“Six am.” John repeated. “Dressed and ready by the front door.” He stood aside as the young men filed out of the room. When only Harris and his roommate remained, John shot them a disgusted look. “Go to bed.” He said and left, shutting the door behind him. The hall was deserted already, all the doors closed. 

John smiled to himself and walked to his own room. 

His guest had made himself at home - Sherlock was sitting at the desk scanning John’s Biology textbook with interest. The letter from St. Barts was open and laying on the desk nearby.

John felt a rush of anger. “You went through my bag!” He said, picking up the precious letter and folding it back into the envelope.

“There’s a mistake in your maths...” He had John’s paper out too. 

John snatched it from his hand, took his textbook and snapped it shut. “That’s very rude!”

Sherlock looked confused. “Why?” He asked. 

John blinked at him. “What do you mean, ‘why!’” He said. “It’s private.”

“It’s ...biology....”

“It’s MY biology paper. That was IN MY BAG.” John shoved the book and papers back into his rucksack and zipped it closed. 

Sherlock still looked confused – and once again, John felt drawn to the man...

John put some space between himself and Sherlock, he sat on his bed and tried to tame and order his thoughts. 

"John...?" 

That was all the apology John thought he was likely to get. He sighed "Erm, Sherlock, what are you studying - here at university?"

Sherlock brightened at John's softer tone. "Chemistry, mostly. Maths, physics..." He shrugged. "Other things."

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "How soon will you graduate? Another year?" He sounded stupid even to himself.

"Oh no, I'm failing out. I expect I'll be asked to not return next quarter."

"Failing? I thought you're some kind of genius."

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "It's all just so BORING, John. I can't stand to be bored." He was up, walking about the room, poking at the curtains and examining the bookshelves.

"What will you do?"

"Do?"

"Next quarter? Another school? Some time off?"

"No, no, no...I've been corresponding with New Scotland Yard - well, I've written to them a number of times. I'm interested in crime. It's fascinating, or it can be - some crimes are quite dull, I can't be bothered. But the good ones, the interesting ones, I like those. I follow the interesting cases. When Scotland Yard is on the wrong track, I try to set them right. They miss the most obvious things..."

"How do you follow cases? How do you know what they've missed?"

"I read the newspapers, John." Sherlock said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Sometimes the answer is right there, but others... I know if I could just examine the scene-"

"The crime scene?"

"Yes! Try and keep up. Last month," Sherlock sat on the bed, next to John, his eyes dancing with excitement. "I got a letter back... a D.C. read my theories on the Lehigh murders and followed up. They're reopening the case! John, do you see? I WAS RIGHT!"

John nodded, amused by Sherlock's excitement. But murder - it was unseemly to be so happy about it.

"This D.C., this Lestrade, has said we should meet if I'm ever in London. So I'm going to London. I would have gone already except I'm running a very interesting experiment on the different kinds of cigarette ash in the chem lab."

"Erm, you should look me up too." John said. "When you're in London. We could...get a drink. Or dinner." Jesus he sounded like like an idiot.

Sherlock's animation stalled and died, his hands drifting to his lap where they clasped each other. He regarded John uncertainly. "Oh..."

"Never mind." John said quickly.

"No! I want to... I will... if you're sure ..."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"No one has ever ... dinner...not even Victor." Sherlock dropped his eyes. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why?' You're interesting - I don't like to be bored either." That was all true. There didn't need to be any more to it than that. There wasn't any more to it. "Here," John said, unzipping his rucksack and fishing through the contents. He tore a sheet of paper out of his notebook. "My number and my address." He said as he wrote. "Anytime. Erm, best call first." 

Sherlock seemed to have retreated into himself. He took the paper and stared at it. The silence grew awkward. "Anyway... " John said finally, pulling his duffel over. "I'm going to go get changed and ready for bed. Here's something you can sleep in." John tossed his pajamas on the second bed. He'd make do with his sweatpants and a t-shirt. "I don't have an extra toothbrush, but you can use the toothpaste and other stuff." John grabbed his dopp kit and was out the door before Sherlock could reply.

John was relieved to find the communal bathroom was deserted. He hurried through his routine and returned to the room, knocking softly before entering. Sherlock sat exactly where he had when John left. He hadn't touched the pajamas. He seemed far away, unaware of John and the room around him. Slowly he surfaced, his eyes focusing on John as he set his dopp kit next to the pajamas.

"John." 

"Yes?"

"I should go." Sherlock stood abruptly.

"Go? Where?" John swallowed his disappointment. "Will you be ok in your dorm tonight?"

"Yes."

"Ok, well, take the sweatshirt - do you want a jumper too? It's got cold. You can bring it by the rugby field tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"And do get in touch." Sherlock was folding the paper John had written on. "I'm serious."

Sherlock nodded.

"Ok." John said. They both stood there for a moment. Something was off, something was bothering Sherlock. "Did I say something... wrong? John asked.

"No!" Sherlock took a step towards the door, a step closer to John. "John..." He said again. 

"Yes?"

In a flash, Sherlock had knelt in front of John and started pulling on the drawstring holding up his sweatpants with one hand, palming the bulge of John's cock with the other. John was hard almost before the fingers touched the cloth. He wanted this!

But he couldn't. "No." He said. 

"It's ok, I want to."

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrists. "Don't, Sherlock.."

Sherlock slumped, head bowed, hands heavy in John's grip. "I thought you ...I'll go." He said.

John let go his hands, they fell to Sherlock's lap. John was uncomfortably aware that he was still hard, still tenting his pants outrageously. "Sherlock..."

"Just let me go." Sherlock begged. He sounded afraid. 

John couldn't stand it. He crouched down and reached out, so slowly, to caress a cheekbone. He ran his fingers under the chin and tilted Sherlock's face up towards his own.

John was again struck by Sherlock's astounding beauty. Really, he shouldn’t be beautiful – his features were odd, the small slanted, colorless eyes, lumpy nose and wide, lush lips with a prominent, almost geometric, bow; he was skinny and tall, with the awkwardness of someone unused to the length of their arms and legs; his hands were enormous and his hair an overgrown nest of black tangles. 

But he WAS beautiful. And John wanted him.

He leaned in and carefully brushed his lips against Sherlock's, took the upper lip between his own and ran his tongue over it lightly. Sherlock responded, pushing his mouth against John's, their breath mingling... for just a few seconds, John allowed himself to grip Sherlock's curls, holding him tightly as they kissed...

John slowly pulled back. He brushed a lock of hair off Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock's eyes were shining, his hands poised in the air, wanting to touch John but not daring.

"I'm not Victor." John said. "I don't want what he wanted." He traced a line over the cheekbone to the lips. Sherlock caught his breath. "Don't ever treat me like Victor."

"Yes, John."

"Good." John stood up, still tenting his pants - Sherlock saw and made an abortive move towards him, but John stepped away and sat down on the bed, pulling his t-shirt over his erection.

"But...?"

"You're only seventeen, Sherlock. And you've had a rough night. We neither of us should do something we might regret later."

"I won't -"

"You can't know that. Look, I'm not saying 'no.' I'm saying... I'll take you to dinner when you come to London and ...we'll see."

Sherlock nodded. "That... that was a kiss?"

John smiled. "Yeah."

"I should go." He stood slowly.

"Take the jumper. I don't want to think of you in the cold without it." Sherlock picked up John's jumper. John smiled. "So I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Oh, yes." And he left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

\---

Sherlock slipped into the music building through the window with the broken lock and laid down on the tattered sofa in the tiny students lounge. He'd have to go back to his room in the morning, but he thought Victor would be in a better mood by then. 

It was chilly in the building after hours. He often came here to use one of the practice rooms to play his violin. The building was closed ridiculously early, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He'd broken the lock on the window in the old boiler room his first month on campus. Sherlock kicked his shoes off and tucked his feet between the couch cushions. He pulled John's jumper tightly around his thin frame and buried his face in it - it smelled faintly of John's aftershave and soap.

He slept fitfully - his dreams wouldn't let him rest. But he didn't have nightmares about Victor's vengeance or happier dreams of Victor's companionship, Sherlock had other, stranger, dreams. 

Sherlock dreamt of himself as an old man keeping bees; hearing John in their cottage baking ginger biscuits to tempt Sherlock; reading the papers together over tea; watching John teach the youngest children to play rugby, seeing John's regret at never having had children of his own writ clearly on his face; steadfastly making sure John takes his medication; climbing into bed together, Sherlock feeling a twinge of arthritis as he arches his back to allow John to enter him, then just the pleasure of John's cock, John moving against him, in him, John's endearments and kisses and curses hot against his neck and jaw; laughing together happily as they clean up, two old men still so desperate for each other after more than fifty years; choking back the fear that John's cancer would recur - as it almost certainly would - as they settle down to sleep... 

Then Sherlock dreamt of himself 20 years hence. He had not met John today, instead Sherlock had suffered at Victor's hand for another year, submitting to degradation and pain that he had survived by partitioning his libido, brutally cutting off every trace of sexual thought or desire, deleting it - rendering himself asexual; using drugs to forget his pain, to remember his brilliance; finally meeting John in 2012, after years of intermittent cocaine and heroin abuse - he had survived two overdoses and four stints in rehab before meeting John; living with John, solving crimes together, fighting a warped, obsessive genius together; loving John - loving him passionately, completely, loving him with Sherlock's whole being; his stunted sexuality keeping John at arm's length; then faking his own suicide when, to his horror, he started wanting John and realized that, despite his protestations, John felt the same; devastating the man he love (and himself) rather than confront his past and allow himself to reconnect with that part of himself; using heroin again within six months; sleeping in abandoned buildings, infected track marks on both arms; cleaning up and returning to John only after John had fallen in love with someone else; making an effort with her, a real effort, it was important that she be between him and John...

These dreams disturbed Sherlock - they were TOO real, too much like the memories of a lived life. Would he be that 70-year-old? If he'd only had that first dream, Sherlock would have been convinced that one day he'd be an old man keeping bees in the country with his beloved John.

Who was the Sherlock that HADN'T spoken to John of the stars, of Venus, last night? Who had let him walk away for twenty years to meet again after they'd both been irrevocably scarred.... was it an alternate life? An alternate universe? Were he and John linked somehow? No, that was just a bunch of mystical claptrap... but Sherlock couldn't forget his dreams.

If he closed his eyes, he could HEAR the bees buzzing around him, smell the clover blossoms on the clear country air, feel his fascination with the bees. Then he heard John through the open window – he set the cookie tray on the stovetop and closed the oven door. Sherlock felt the deep well of love... with the small pit of dread, of worry, for John's health...

He forced himself to dwell on the other dream – Sherlock remembered both perfectly. His sexuality there felt like an infected molar that had been pulled, leaving only an empty space for the other teeth to crowd into. Sherlock tried to probe the empty space and he was filled with panic, adrenaline - fight or flight flooding his system, turning off his brain...

Was this normal? Did the frisson of sexual attraction always inspire such vivid dreams? Sherlock wanted to run tests, experiment... but John was the first person he'd ever felt attracted to that way. Would there be another?


	2. The In-between Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we skip ahead several months.

Stanton was smirking at John still, he hadn’t stopped since Sherlock had come by after the game to return John’s jumper and sweatshirt. Sherlock really didn’t understand how attractive he was - one look and John felt his cheeks grow hot, the blush a tipoff to anyone looking.

Unfortunately, Stanton was looking.

John wished he’d had a moment alone with Sherlock, a moment away from prying eyes. He wanted to kiss the young man again, press his lips against that full, lush mouth - reassure both Sherlock and himself that this intense feeling of ‘potential’ was real.

“Cap... who’s your friend?” Stanton had called out, causing other heads to turn in their direction.

John had ignored him. “Call me.” He said to Sherlock instead. “Let me know when you’re coming to London. Or just to talk.”

“I will, John.” 

John had touched Sherlock’s arm briefly - the slightest of intimacies - even that was too much, he heard Stanton scoff.

“All right.” He said. “Goodbye.” Then he’d turned to face his team. Even Quentin was looking at him curiously. 

John just shrugged and climbed onto the bus. 

If he were actually contemplating a relationship with Sherlock – and he WAS contemplating it – he’d have to get used to curious looks. Not to mention malicious intent - it might be 1992, homosexuality hadn’t been illegal for 35 years, but it still wasn’t normalized. Despite great strides in gay rights, they still couldn’t marry, couldn’t adopt, were still seen as lesser, perverse, a joke...they were still targeted by coppers and beaten in the streets....and killed...

Accepting his latent bisexuality hadn’t been a problem - as long as it was just anonymous sex now and then. John never intended to declare it publicly with a boyfriend. But the dreams he’d had after Sherlock had left last night, they were so real... 

Oh God, those dreams!

Stanton was whispering to Harris and snickering. It would be so easy, John knew, to act like Stanton expected him to act. He could feel the yearning to hide from those questioning gazes, to act ashamed, guilty. But John refused. He slid into the seat next to Stanton. Harris took one look and retreated.

“You got something to say to me, Stant?” John asked softly. 

“Erm, no, Cap.”

“I think you do.” John said. “Have the balls to say it to my face.”

Stanton’s jaw set. “OK. I didn’t think you were the 'type' to share your clothes with... with a ‘delicate,’ young man.”

“The fate of my jumper concerns you that much?”

“Cap, you looked at that bloke like he was the fittest bird you ever saw - I thought you were gonna snog his face off.” 

“And?”

“And what?”

“And why do you care? If I DID do that, how is it any of your business?" John kept his voice pitched low. "I’ve never paid attention to how 'close' you are with Quentin - 

Stanton began to vent his outrage. "WHA–" 

John cut him off. "You ALWAYS have to room together. You spend ALL your time together. I don't think your realize how... affectionate you are with him. And you never bait Quent the way you do the rest of us, you do know that, right? Did you really think that no one would notice if you were a relentless prick? ”

Stanton had blanched. “Cap...” He sounded strangled.

“I don’t care, Stanton. I don’t care if he’s your best mate or the bloke that shags your fag arse just right. I. Don’t. Care. But you cause any problems and I could start to care. Yeah. I could care a lot.”

John stared Stanton down. The man looked furious. And terrified. “Take care of your own business, Stant, not mine.” John stalked back to his own seat. Harris turned around again - John could hear him ask what that was all about. Stanton snapped at him and Harris retreated. 

Usually Stanton would leave his seat and double up with Quentin. Not today. He stayed in his own seat, turned away from the world.

John’s thoughts returned to his dreams... as he slept last night, John had made love to Sherlock for the first time. Sherlock was older, maybe 30, in his prime. (Vaguely John wondered why they had waited.) Sherlock seduced John, who somehow had never been with a man. Sherlock was gloriously beautiful: long and pale, so lean that John could see every tiny muscle rippling under his lovely skin. John was amazed that this... this creature... wanted him. He’d never known anyone like Sherlock, simultaneously the masterful genius and completely clueless. He wasn’t clueless about sex though - Sherlock knew what he wanted. He pressed John against the wall and silenced his protests with kisses. He ground his his leg against John’s groin, expertly frotting him as he unbuttoned John’s shirt, ran his hands under John’s vest, up through the thatch of ginger hair to linger on his pectorals, fingering his firming nipples. Sherlock took him to his bed, laid John down and rode his cock until John pumped his hips up hard, over and over and, crying out, he came...

Then John’s dream shifted... Sherlock was young, nineteen or twenty, when he stumbled into St. Barts where John was interning. He was exhausted and filthy, and had defensive knife wounds on his arms and hands that John painstakingly cleaned and stitched. He took the beautiful young man home to his tiny flat, fed him, shoved him in the bath, let him sleep. And then John took his virginity, so slowly, so gently, one hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, until he was certain Sherlock had adjusted, had reached the point past the pain where the pleasure took over. Then John fucked him properly until they both came, sticky cum pooling in the ridges of Sherlock’s abdomen, the hollow between his collarbones. After, John let go Sherlock’s legs and stretched out next to him. John caressed the flushed cheeks, the black tangles and kissed Sherlock deeply...

John dreamed of another meeting, another first time, and then another, over and over again he made love to Sherlock, fell in love with Sherlock... sometimes they were friends first, sometimes Sherlock was a blushing virgin, sometimes just inexperienced. Only twice was Sherlock confident, practiced ...ten times, twenty times, thirty different first times together, sometimes gentle, sometimes rambunctious, enthusiastic, occasionally rough... Sherlock was never quite as young as he was in real life...

...and then ....

They were friends, close friends, but not together. John didn’t even consider that sort of relationship with Sherlock - when other people assumed they were a couple, the thought made John vaguely ill. He wasn’t stupid, he saw the way Sherlock looked at him sometimes. But John didn’t think Sherlock was consciously aware of those feelings which made it easy for John to ignore, to deny. John married a woman - a smart, lovely woman that he truly loved... ... and yet.... dreaming John was heartbroken... 

\---- 

John resumed his life in London - classes at St. Barts and study took most of his time, his job with the rugby team the rest, so there was little leftover for a social life. Occasionally he went to a pub or watched a game of footie with one of his roommates or with some of the lads from St. Barts. But mostly John studied and worked.

“We’re out of milk.” Nigel, one of John’s roommates announced as John got home from a long day at hospital.

John let his rucksack fall to the table. “I nicked some from the canteen.” He said tossing a couple pint cartons towards Nige. 

“God’s own miracle!” Nigel proclaimed, opening one immediately. “Fancy a cuppa?” He asked nodding at the steaming teapot.

“Now that’s miraculous.” John mumbled as he filled his mug and splashed in some of the milk. He’d also nicked some fruit and a roast beef sandwich for his dinner. He sank heavily into a chair and opened the sandwich wrapper. “Who else is home?”

“Just you and me. It’s been blissfully quiet here all evening.”

“Mm.”

“Teddy’s probably at Jemima’s - better he bothers her roommate than I listen to another night of them shagging.”

“They’re not that bad.” John hoped he and Nancy hadn’t annoyed his mates...

“You sleep on the other side of the kitchen. You don’t get the full show.”

“It’s not like you and Bertie are exactly quiet...”

“Please, we’re the very model of decorum.”

John snorted. “Bertie wears nought but a jock strap in the kitchen...”

“He has a decorous arse, I’ve seen you looking.”

“He is fit.” John admitted. 

“Mm.” Nigel said. “Almost forgot, someone rang for you.”

“Who?”

“Some toff with a funny name and a delicious baritone - I wrote it down.” Nigel rummaged through his mass of books and papers. “Mm - here.” He tore off a corner of a page dense with his handwriting and handed it to John.

It had been months since that night in the country when John had walked along the river with Sherlock looking at the stars. He’d been disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t called for that dinner, John had really expected that he would. He’d been looking forward to it. Too much. After several weeks, John forced himself to stop expecting it. The rejection was surprisingly painful. 

He’d had more dreams like the ones he’d had that night, about Sherlock - less about sex, more about small moments: drinking tea together in the morning; laughing helplessly in a hallway at some shared misadventure; feeling his hand brush against Sherlock's as they walked towards home; laying on a sofa with his arms around Sherlock watching crap telly; coming home to find Sherlock waiting for him; his mouth against Sherlock’s long, ivory neck... the thing that all these dreams had in common was a sense of profound contentment - they felt like memories of happy times. John couldn’t help feeling bereft when he woke.

He considered waiting a few days to ring back for all of one second. “Thanks, Nige.” He said. John didn’t even notice his roommate’s surprised snicker as he abandoned his dinner and, stretching the long cord across the kitchen, carried the phone into his tiny bedroom.

Sherlock picked up on the first ring.


	3. Living Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's adventures in London.

In the cab to the restaurant, Sherlock smoothed his suit coat. It had been hot all day, but the evening was pleasant and clear - too bad the city was bollocks for stargazing. That would be good on a date. On this date.

THIS date! Sherlock’s first date ever. Butterflies twisted in his torso thrillingly. He’d spent the last four months fantasizing about this date with John. It could only be with John.

It was irritating that he’d had to wait so long - Sherlock had worried that John would lose interest, or find someone else. But it had taken time to get to London and get established. Sherlock had been thrown out of Uni as he expected - what he hadn’t expected was Mummy and Mycroft throwing fits about it. 

“It hardly matters.” Sherlock had told them. “I’m moving to London anyway.”

Mummy’s eyebrows had shot up to her hairline. “You certainly are not.” She’d said.

“I am!” He’d shouted. “Why not!?”

“Because, brother dear, I don’t have time to look after you.” 

“I don’t need ‘looking after,' Mycroft!” 

“You’re too young to live on your own, dear.” Mummy said.

“I’m almost eighteen!”

“You’re eight months from eighteen, Sherlock.” 

“So what!”

“You’re too young.” Mummy declared in her ‘that’s final’ voice. “Mycroft will talk to your university, see what you need to get back on track.”

“Mummy!” Mycroft didn’t fancy having to clean up after Sherlock again.

“I’m not going back.” Sherlock declared. “I’m going to London.”

And he had. At first he’d bided his time – sitting silently all day, reading the papers (searching for updates on the Lehigh Murders) or deep in thought, letting them think he was cowed. At night, in secret, he packed and repacked his rucksack, trying to think of everything he might need - this would't be like camping in the country, he should take as little as possible. A Swiss Army knife with multiple attachments including a tin opener, fork and spoon; extra socks; trail mix, candy bars and jerky; an oilcloth tarp; his toothbrush and a big tube of toothpaste; his set of lock-picks; string; a rain poncho; a torch; a windbreaker; a warm jumper; and cash, mostly small bills. He would wear a durable pair of army trousers, pants, a t-shirt and a collared shirt, good socks, his trainers and a hat. 

And the slip of paper with John's phone number and address. Sherlock didn't need it, he had it memorized. But he wanted to have it.

Three days later Mycroft left for London, handing Sherlock a list of things he would have to accomplish in order to return to Uni. Sherlock ignored it. Two weeks after that, Mummy went to visit Gran in Scotland for a few days. The staff kept tabs on him at first... but all he did was sit and read or stare off into space. It was boring... their watchfulness lapsed. That night - after the last-minute decision to switch out his trainers for combat boots - Sherlock slipped out of the house with his rucksack and walked to the train station. He was on the first train to London.

Living rough in a big city was both easier and more difficult than in the country. It was easier to find shelter, to stay warm and reasonably dry. There was even the possibility of a wash now and again. But there were constant threats - other homeless stole whatever they could, they had rumbled Sherlock’s rucksack within a day. As an attractive teenager, Sherlock was offered money for sex, drugs for sex, a night's accommodation for sex, even food for sex. They were either incredulous or belligerent when he declined. 

And there were those who wouldn’t hear ‘no.’ Sherlock got lucky the first time, landed an elbow hard into his attacker’s nose, breaking it audibly, giving him the chance to run. The second time it was four men together. He would have been caught immediately if one of the other waifs hadn't shouted "Shezza, lookout!" Sherlock saw them before they could surround him - but just barely. He darted out the door hardly a meter ahead. He ran faster and harder than he ever had, ducking into alleys and weaving across busy streets, adrenaline spiking through his veins. Finally they cornered him in a dead end alley. The ringleader, a largish man with a soft gut and mean eyes, laughed as they carefully hemmed him in. Sherlock searched for an escape. Seconds ahead of hands clamping down on his arms, he hoisted a large crate up onto a covered tip and clambered after it, standing on the crate, using every ounce of fast-twitch in his body, he jumped and grabbed onto a fire escape. He felt hands brush against his trousers, he kicked the man in the face and pulled himself up enough to throw a leg over the platform and climb on. He had escaped by centimeters. 

He lay there on the platform, panting, a treed cat, as two of the men climbed up onto the crate and hoisted up a third – the smallest, a rat-faced man only a few years older than Sherlock with keloid scars on his neck and arms. Cursing the crate's sturdiness, Sherlock stayed on the platform just long enough to catch his breath and break the man’s fingers as he grabbed hold - with his combat boots (not for the first time, Sherlock rejoiced that decision) - causing the man to shriek and drop heavily onto the other two. Then Sherlock ran up all the stairs to the roof, ran across the roof, leapt to another and then another, ran until there was little chance they’d trace him if they tried, and hid. 

Only then did he realize he’d ripped his arm open from elbow to wrist.

After that, he found a dirty overcoat that stank of urine. He wore it constantly despite the warm weather. He let his scraggly beard grow, let his hair mat, - stopped washing all together - wore his hat low over his brow and affected a stoop and a limp. With his head down, he looked like an old, possibly incontinent and exceptionally filthy vagrant. Most everyone avoided Sherlock then.

He realized quickly that he couldn’t let John see him in this state. Sherlock had thought to take a week, perhaps ten days, to settle into a routine, then call John to arrange dinner. He would have to wait until he had safe accommodation... and money. John hadn’t a ten pence to his name, Sherlock couldn’t mooch off him. 

He spent his days smoking butts, reading cast-off newspapers thoroughly, especially the crime sections. He taught himself to pick-pocket by watching the light-fingered children that had relieved him of the contents of his rucksack. He learning the best places to find shelter, honing his lock-picking skills until he could open most any door in pitch dark in under twenty seconds. And he foraged for food and water. Three times he went to crime scenes he’d read about in the papers and examined them, reconstructing what he could, ruminating on the crimes. He wrote a letter to D.C. Lestrade about one – he was confident he'd cracked it. But he hadn't a return address so he didn't know if Lestrade followed up.

Sherlock went to the scene of the Lehigh Murders. It confirmed his theory of the crime. How hadn't the police seen it? It was so OBVIOUS.

He still had the tarp - during the day Sherlock wore it wrapped around his midsection under his overcoat, tied tightly in place with a length of clothesline - it was invaluable for keeping warm and dry. He carried the lock picks inside his clothes on a long string around his neck, and he found a large, curved iron nail that could open tins, pry boards off windows, and, in a pinch, serve as a makeshift weapon. 

His Swiss Army knife, his money, his socks, windbreaker and jumper, his rucksack - all were gone. He never took the combat boots off, knowing they would disappear if he did.

Sherlock spent nights holed up - on roofs, in abandoned buildings, even a tip turned on its side – sometimes alone, sometimes with other vulnerable waifs – anywhere he could hide away and feel relatively safe. 

In the dark, he thought a lot about Victor, how he had let that relationship get so out of hand.

Sherlock believed that Victor had honestly liked him - that his friendship had been authentic - in the beginning. Sherlock had been high on that friendship - Victor WANTED to listen to Sherlock, wanted to hear his observations and experiments, and Sherlock found he quite liked having an audience. SPEAKING his thoughts sometimes led to new deductions - that was exciting! And the appreciation, the surprise and occasional delight he could evoke... It was a drug.

And laughter. Laughing with Victor - learning the vast difference between laughing WITH a friend versus being laughed AT. That was a revelation. Sherlock had been giddy with laughter. Once Victor had laughed so hard, he couldn't stop, and Sherlock was both laughing with him and so completely chuffed that HE had caused this, he had made Victor laugh like that.

Which made it so much easier to understand Victor’s small kindnesses - bringing Sherlock a banana and some biscuits in the chem lab when Sherlock had missed lunch; following Sherlock to odd places, carrying equipment; waiting for Sherlock after class to walk together to the dorm or dining hall, excusing Sherlock’s forgetfulness and unintended insults...

It was nonsensical, superfluous, sentimental, dull - but Sherlock craved it none-the-less. 

When Victor took Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his trousers so he could feel the hardening flesh beneath, he hadn't recoiled. It didn't seem like a big deal. And Sherlock was curious about sex. He didn’t desire Victor - he’d never desired anyone - but he wanted to explore.

Sherlock had masturbated, he enjoyed the release and the lassitude after was often a fertile time when solutions came together in his brain. But masturbating was frustratingly inefficient – he didn't relish flogging himself half raw in order to orgasm. He'd tried various kinds of pornography hoping to expedite the process, but nothing made it easier - not the big jugs, the nasty nurses, the naughty schoolgirls, the Swedish orgies or the American beefcake boys. He even found a book of racy Victorian photographs that included women being taken by dogs and sucking off horses... The best result was a mild intellectual curiosity at some of the more arcane positions. He'd hoped that experiencing sex with Victor would provide the missing element, the 'X' factor that would jump start his cock. It didn't. It never occurred to Sherlock to ask Victor for a helping hand, to return the favor. And Victor never offered.

Perhaps if he had, their relationship would have continued on a more equal footing.

When had their friendship turned into something else? When had Sherlock become a possession? A valuable possession, to be sure, but still something to be used and occasionally abused.

Sherlock knew he was difficult. He regularly became so involved in a project that he forgot the time, forgot to eat, forgot that Victor was waiting for him... maybe he thought the sex could make up for that. But the more he gave, the more demanding Victor became.... 

(The night he'd met John, he'd forgotten he was supposed to meet Victor at the pub and had left him waiting - and drinking - for almost two hours, when Sherlock had finally arrived, Victor was in an evil mood. He had demanded that Sherlock make it up to him right then and there.)

Sherlock’s arm, where he’d torn it open that first week, had become infected. He'd gone to a clinic and had it cleaned and stitched up. They'd bandaged his forearm carefully and told him to keep it clean and change the bandage every day or so. That hadn't been feasible. He ignored the soreness and doused it with alcohol when he could. 

By late-July, his entire arm ached and throbbed. It had swelled, the skin from elbow to fingers tight and hot to the touch, angry red streaks climbing up his arm. It had started to smell bad and there was pus around the stitches he'd never had removed.

He slept fitfully, day melting into night, again dreaming of John, but they were awful, stomach-churning dreams: John marrying a laughing, dark-haired woman; John, in army blues, going off to war; Sherlock trying to fill the empty spot where John used to be with heroin; meeting John for the first time as John walked with his wife and young children; John leaving Sherlock, packing his things in bitter silence; Sherlock forced to watch, to participate, as John married a blonde woman; John with a succession of boring girlfriends; John finding Sherlock high on cocaine and looking at him with such disgust; John with another man, a sturdy soldier who adored him; knowing that John wanted to be with Sherlock even as he turned and walked away with his wife; John discovering Sherlock in a drugs den and screaming his rage at Sherlock, Mycroft telling him that John had been killed in Afghanistan ....

They were so real, so agonizing. Drifting half-awake, Sherlock sobbed. Tears wet his cheeks and his thoughts tangled up into impossible knots - was he living rough in London? Was he high on heroin, nodding off and imagining things? Or was he grieving the death of his soldier-lover? Sherlock couldn’t tell anymore.

With great difficulty, Sherlock realized he was spiking a fever. It was clouding his mind, he couldn't tell what was real and what was an hallucination. 

He needed help. He could call John! There was a phone box near, John would come! Sherlock wanted to see John so badly!

No! He didn't want John to have to save him again. The whole point of coming to London on his own was proving that he didn't NEED saving, that he could take care of himself. And what would John think if he saw Sherlock like this? Filthy and stinking and raving from fever. No. Sherlock had to go to hospital on his own.

He cried at the prospect. It was too daunting. John, why would you marry her? Can't you see I'm right here? Can't you see how I love you?

Sherlock told the A&E nurse his name was John and that he was twenty-one. He showed her his arm. She was sharp-eyed, intelligent and Sherlock knew that while the doctor and other nurses wrinkled their noses and turned away, she saw him through the filth and stink. She scrubbed the wound mercilessly, cleaning out the puss and snipping off the old stitches. It was agony – the nurse was visibly surprised when Sherlock turned down drugs for the pain. She gave him an antibiotic jab and a packet of biscuits, orange juice and paracetamol for his fever, and told him to sit still while she went for more antibiotic ointment.

And then he saw John. He blinked and tried to sit up. Was he dreaming again?

John must have been doing a rotation in emergency medicine. He was in a group following an older doctor around, she had him doing tasks, giving John nominal advice and interference. He was relaxed, competent, efficient.... Sherlock watched him from behind his curtain, admiring the the deftness of his square hands, until he was out of sight. 

When he was gone, Sherlock drifted off...those square hands holding his wrists... touching his face... in his hair...

Though he would never admit it, Sherlock was relieved when Mycroft appeared. He must have been monitoring the hospitals – the sharp-eyed nurse had ratted him out. He was carted off a private clinic where they treated his arm. Upon release he was taken to Mycroft’s London home and deposited directly into bath. He scrubbed away the months of filth, he shaved and tied back his tangled hair. He’d lost weight, gained calluses and scars, and a working knowledge of living rough that would serve him well in future years.

"Mummy wants you home." Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock shrugged. "What's the point, I'll just come back." 

"Yes, that's what I told her." Sherlock looked up in surprise. "It took an extraordinarily long time to find you, brother mine. I had calculated a week, two at the outside, but you eluded us for more than three months. Well done you. We had you on camera – at Paddington when you first arrived of course and in the Underground... but London's network of cameras is spotty. I'm looking into having it extensively expanded. Then you disappeared entirely. Your simple disguise was quite -" Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "-effective."

Sherlock shrugged, hiding the glow of satisfaction. "It's the posture." He said. "Changing how you move is essential to any good disguise."

"Indeed. If you hadn't been foolish enough to let THAT –" Mycroft indicated Sherlock's bandaged arm. "-happen, we wouldn't have you now."

"You have me." Sherlock sighed. "But I'm staying. In London." 

"Yes. Under certain conditions."

Sherlock scoffed. "What 'conditions?!'"

"First, you have to stay here with me."

"With you? Mycroft! We neither of us want that. Disastrous!"

"Yes. But Father is insisting. Just until you're eighteen."

"I'll be eighteen in two weeks!"

"Sherlock, your birthday is in January. You can't lie to your family about your age."

Sherlock sulked. "Fine. What else?"

"You have to go to school."

"I'm not going back there!"

"No, you don't have to go there. There are schools and universities here in London."

"But school is so BORING! Why can't I just study on my own?"

"Believe it or not, you don't know everything, little brother."

Sherlock harrumphed.

"You can read advanced chemistry with a fair amount of independence. There are several fine programs..."

"Fine! Fine. I'll read chemistry."

"And the final condition..."

"What?"

"You have to ring Mummy. Today. Or I'm to put you on the first train back."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock was aghast. "That's cruel! Even for you."

"It's not my doing, brother mine. Mummy-wummy wants to make sure her widdle Sherwock is OK after getting lost in big, bad London."

"I WASN'T LOST!"

"I know.

"I HATE ringing Mummy. I HATE THE TELEPHONE!"

"I know. You'll just have to decide if London is worth it." 

\--- 

Sherlock waited outside the restaurant until John arrived. 

"John, hello." He said. His face wanted to grin foolishly in delight. Sherlock controlled his features.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't know whether to offer to shake hands or kiss John's cheeks in the continental fashion – or to simply kiss John. He gestured awkwardly.

"I'm a little nervous too." John said – and Sherlock could see John's nervousness in the way his hair was combed, how carefully he'd shaved, in the sharp creases of his plaid shirt. It was obvious. He nodded, relieved. "Let's go in." John said. "You can tell me what you've been doing for the last few months."


	4. Sherlock's First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John reconnect. John meets someone new.

After dinner, they walked aimlessly. They talked quietly about this and that – John felt like Sherlock already knew everything about him so saying it was just a formality. 

He waited for Sherlock to light a cigarette, but he didn't. 'Because he's not bored,' John realized, 'or anxious.' It felt like he knew everything about Sherlock too. 

But he didn't. Not even close. He had to remind himself of that. 

The urge to kiss the younger man was just as strong as before. 

Eventually John realized that Sherlock was steering their ramble, that he had a destination in mind. "Where are you taking me?" He asked.

Sherlock smirked happily. "We're almost there." He said. 

"You really got to know London this summer."

"Parts of it. Museums, back alleys and empty buildings mostly. Here, this way." He led them through a gangway between Victorian era tenement blocks. Halfway down, Sherlock stepped into a doorway and pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and with some jiggling, unlocked the door. 

"Why do you have a key to this building?" John asked. 

"I don't." Sherlock held up the set of 'keys' for John's inspection. "Lock picks."

"Oh. Should we be in here?"

"It's fine." Sherlock said, leading the way down a dark hallway to a painting ladder that shone dully in the light from a distant window. "Be careful." He whispered. "I'll go first." Sherlock climbed the ladder and disappeared. 

"Where –?"

"Shhh." Sherlock shushed him, his head appearing over the lip of a somewhat jagged hole in the ceiling. "Come on up."

"Right." John said to himself dubiously. He mounted the ladder – he had to stand on the top step to reach the opening, Sherlock's big hand gripped him as he scrambled up into the second floor. "Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"Come on. The stairs are intact from here."

John brushed dust and rubble from his shirt and snuffled at the smell of mildew. He followed Sherlock through a maze-like series of dim rooms and dark hallways to a rather grand stairwell. Even tenements had carved oak finials in the 1880s.

"Watch that spot." Sherlock said, pulling John closer to the wall (and closer to him). "The wood's a little soft."

"Right. Why are we whispering?"

"People live here." Sherlock swung gracefully over the railing and onto the stairs. John didn't have the height to do the same. 

"Sherlock!"

"Oh." Sherlock was back and offering his hand. He gripped John's forearm allowing him to lever himself up and grab hold of the railing. He climbed over. Then John was following him up the stairs. Sherlock was obviously used to running stairs, he didn't seem out of breath. John was an athlete, but medical school had stolen some of his stamina. He was panting by the time he bumped into Sherlock crouching on a small landing in the pitch dark. He leaned against the wall and let his heartbeat slow. 

Then Sherlock swung a door inward letting in a bright flood of moonlight, almost blinding John with its suddenness. They were on the roof.

John walked outside. The roof was flat and narrow, covered in peeling tar paper and other assorted detritus. But there was an unobstructed (and unexpected) view of the Thames. The air was cool and fresh, the noise from the city far away. The river was beautiful with the moon reflecting on the water.

Sherlock was standing next to him. There was dirt on his suit, but it still hung perfectly on his slim frame. In the moonlight his skin was ivory marble - it shone, his long neck, his chiseled cheekbones. The contrast with his dark hair, black eyebrows, thick lashes was striking... He seemed older than he had in April, the months living rough had made him wiser, more somber, but he still seemed magical, beautiful... John didn't believe in faeries, but Sherlock could change that....

"I liked to sleep here on clear nights." Sherlock said quietly.

John took his hand, interlaced their fingers. "I can see why. It's brilliant."

"I could bar the door from this side – and the one on the other building –" Sherlock swept a hand at the identical building a meter and a half away. "And then I'd be alone all night." Sherlock was nervous again. John let him talk. "I looked for the stars, but you can't see them in the city. Too much light pollution."

"Where was your bed?"

"Sherlock turned and pointed at the little shed with the doorway that protruded from the roof. "There, by the wall. I could hear if anyone came up the stairs, tried to get onto the roof."

"You didn't want to share the view?"

"No, it's, erm... safer... alone."

"Oh. Right. Yeah." A whole other dimension of Sherlock's life on the streets opened up for John. Danger. 

Over curry, in several charming anecdotes, Sherlock had told John about living rough – how determined he was to come to London despite his family's wishes, how it had been a bigger adjustment than he had expected, how he'd lived off the refuse of others; cigarettes, newspapers, food... learned which restaurants had the best tips for dining well, how to rescue a half full cup of tea or coffee from the bin... how he'd learned to find shelter in doorways and under bushes...

But of course there was danger too. John wondered how much time Sherlock had spent afraid, how much finding this place – this defensible place – had meant to him. What had he done when it rained? John hoped Sherlock had had an equally safe place out of the elements. 

John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it. He turned it over and kissed the wrist with just a little tongue and teeth. Sherlock shuddered. John pulled the taller man into his arms. The height difference was less than ideal, but Sherlock was leaning in, lessening the gap. John stretched up and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's. The kiss was slow, languid - tasting Sherlock, savoring him.

Sherlock's hands moved over John's back, gripping and caressing. One dipped low to fondle his arse and John felt himself responding, pressing himself against Sherlock. Sherlock pushed his thigh against John and ground into his stiffening member - a move straight out of John's dreams. John gripped a fistful of black curls and tugged gently, exactly the way dream-Sherlock had liked - and Sherlock (this Sherlock, HIS Sherlock) moaned in pleasure.

John threw his head back, panting. He felt Sherlock's teeth on his neck, his breath hot. "You smell wonderful." Sherlock sighed.

John pressed his face into the tangle of hair. "Is that why you talked to me? About Venus?"

"Yes. And the way you were in the pub."

"How was I?"

"Ready for trouble."

"You WERE a bit of trouble." 

Sherlock scoffed, but he looked uncertain as he searched John's face.

"I'm glad you talked to me." John said and kissed Sherlock again. "Come home with me." 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He leaned back slowly and let his arms drop to his sides. 

"Erm - that was a question - would you like to come home with me tonight?" 

"For...for sex?"

John chuckled. "Yes. Or no. Whatever you want."

"What do YOU want, John?"

"I want you." John brushed an unruly black curl back from Sherlock's temple. "I want to spend time with you."

Sherlock touched John's cheek and pulled his face close, initiating another kiss. John liked that. He let Sherlock lead, felt his hunger. He wondered what this remarkable young man saw in him. He supposed that sooner or later Sherlock would realize how thoroughly UNremarkable John was. That would hurt. That would hurt a lot. It would be smarter to ignore the dreams and let Sherlock go...

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I want to go home with you." 

John smiled into the crystal blue eyes.

They took the Underground to John's neighborhood then walked the several blocks to John's flat. Sherlock was silent most of the way, smiling nervously at John one moment, deep in thought the next. John wanted to reassure him - he would when they were alone. For the moment he gave Sherlock space.

"This is it." John said, unlocking the street door. "Third floor -" He swore under his breath. "Fair warning, looks like at least one of my bloody flatmates is in." John pointed up at the lights in the third floor windows.

"How many do you have?"

"Three." Sherlock's brow furrowed again. "C'mom." John said and started up the stairs. He turned at the top. "Sherlock." John started, trying to smooth the anxiety from Sherlock's forehead with his fingers. "We won't do anything you don't want to do. You know that?"

"John..." Sherlock's hands rested on John's shoulders. "I want to be with you." He leaned in and kissed John. His lips were soft and warm. He pulled back and looked into John's eyes intensely, then pushed John carefully so his back was against the wall, using his weight to hold him there. Now his kisses were demanding, hungry - full of desire and need. John held Sherlock tightly - tighter than he'd ever dared hold a woman - his grip bruising, his cock full hard. He got lost in Sherlock's mouth and tongue and hands, in the body pressing against him...

They were both panting, John's shirt had been pulled from his trousers and Sherlock's hair was tousled. "Take me inside." Sherlock whispered, letting John free from the wall. John fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door.

"Hello." John called into the flat.

"Oi, John, that you?" Teddy was on the couch with his girlfriend, watching telly.

"Yep. Hey, Jemima." Sherlock had followed John in and examined the pair on the couch dubiously. "Didn't realize you were here tonight."

"Yeah, Jem's flatmate has her parents in town, so...." Teddy shrugged. He glanced at Sherlock. "Thought you had a hot date tonight, John."

"I do." John said pointedly. 

"Oh...OH!" Teddy blinked in surprise. "I didn't know..."

Jemima giggled and punched him. "He's having a laugh, Ted." She said. "You want to watch movies with us?" She asked John. "We have Die Hard on the VCR."

"Erm, no." John didn't bother correcting her. "We're going to my room." He took Sherlock's hand and led him into the kitchen. "Do you want wine? Beer?" He asked opening the fridge. 

"Whatever you're having." Sherlock said. 

John grabbed two bottles of beer and opened them. He handed one to Sherlock. He could see Sherlock looking around the flat with a critical eye. "I'm down here." He said walking through the kitchen. John's bedroom was next to the back entrance. It was small, if he hadn't built a loft for the bed, there wouldn't have been room for his desk. But he'd taken advantage of the twelve foot ceiling and made a platform seven feet tall for the futon. His desk and chair were underneath. One wall held his bookcase, the other a chest of drawers and small wardrobe... and that was everything.

John switched on the radio to a classical station - he had a boom box on the dresser - and turned to Sherlock. "This is it." He said. 

"Why did she think you were joking?" Sherlock asked.

"I guess because I've never dated a man before."

"Oh." Sherlock didn't ask, but John could see his questions.

"I'd never met a man I was interested in dating. Before." John told him. "But now I have. Come here." 

\--- 

A long, black saloon car pulled up by the pitch. Some of the players stared curiously. That's what caught John's attention - his players' reaction. John had been preoccupied, trying to work out how to give a blow job without gagging. It seemed impossible, but Sherlock managed it. John's technique had been lacking - if he hadn't had a couple fingers in Sherlock's arse tickling his prostate, he wasn't sure he could have finished the job - not that Sherlock seemed to mind. He'd moaned and thrashed and called out John's name and then shot copiously, hitting the wall, his chest and abdomen... the look of surprise on his face making him appear particularly young and vulnerable. John had held him and kissed his face. He deserved the best - John was determined that he would learn. Maybe he could ask Nigel for some pointers...

"C'mom, lads!" Coach called. "Pay attention. Watson.... Watson! Take them through rushing drills."

John pushed himself off the bench and quickly started organizing the drills, assigning roles and positions. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the car circle the field and drive off. 

Practice dragged on. John tried to pay attention - tried not to dwell on waking pressed against Sherlock's back, how Sherlock had looked when he woke – confused and then delighted, amazed. They had showered together and John had made Sherlock orgasm again before the hot water ran out.

John tried to keep the stupid grin of happiness off his face. He caught Stanton looking at him funny and John again forced himself to focus on the rugby.

Finally it ended. John helped put the equipment away and turned down an offer to go to the pub with the boys. Only when he was walking away, his back to the pitch, did he indulge the silly grin. Jemima's face when Sherlock had emerged from John's room this morning in too-short pajama pants, an old rugby sweatshirt, his dark curls tousled from sleep had been PRICELESS.

A car pulled up next to him - it was the big, fancy saloon car that had been circling the rugby field. The back door popped open and an extremely attractive young woman climbed out. John nodded 'hello' – a little dazzled by her beauty – and went to walk by, thinking it was an odd coincidence, when the woman addressed him. "John Watson?" 

"Erm, yes." How did she know his name? 

"I need you to come with me."

John didn't move. "Erm...who are you?"

She smiled prettily. "Just get in the car, John."

John took a second to appreciate the absurdity of the situation – he had no idea what was going on, why was an attractive stranger who KNEW HIS NAME trying to get him into an expensive livery car? He considered arguing with her, but he was curious ...John stepped towards the open door, then hesitated. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"Yes. Get in the car."

John gave in and slid into the big car. The woman climbed in after him and immediately turned her attention to the several file folders on the seat. As soon as she shut the door, the car started moving. John looked around - he couldn't see the driver, the privacy shield was up. "Where are you taking me?" John asked again.

"Not far." She said, not looking up. "Relax."

John scoffed. How was he supposed to relax? Still, she was fit, if he hadn't had a spectacular date last night - and kissed Sherlock goodbye just four hours earlier - John would have tried his luck with her....

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Get out, John." She said. The car had stopped. John climbed out. He was in a subterranean parking garage, vast and dim. John shut the door and the car immediately drove away, startling him. He looked around - and saw a man...

...a tall, corpulent man in a fussy, somewhat old fashioned - and extremely expensive - suit. He held a closed umbrella like a walking stick and his shoes were polished to a high shine. John walked toward him. As he got closer he realized the impression that the man was middle aged was wrong - he was quite a bit younger, not much older than John himself.

"Mister Watson."

"Yes?" John spoke sharply. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't think it could possibly be good.

"Just what, exactly, are your intentions towards my brother?"

John cleared his throat. "Erm...I don't know what you're talking about."

"My brother. Sherlock Holmes." 

"You're Sherlock's brother."

The fat man rolled his eyes in exasperation, but quickly schooled his features. "As I just said, yesss." The last word ended in a hiss of frustration. 

John tried to suss what was frustrating him. "Am I... trying your patience?" He asked.

"No more than anyone else. Although repeating information I have just provided IS particularly annoying."

"Right." John said. Sherlock had briefly mentioned a brother over dinner. "Why are we...." John looked around the empty garage. "...here?"

"I wish to avoid Sherlock's notice."

"The car, the girl - hardly subtle."

The big man glowered. "Mister Watson, what are your intentions towards my brother?!"

John had regained some equilibrium. "I don't see how that's your business." He said.

"You don't?"

"No. Sherlock's eighteen, he's lived on his own-"

Sherlock's brother cut John off. "No, Mister Watson, my brother is NOT eighteen. If he's said he is, he's lying."

John suddenly felt sick. "How old is he?"

"Seventeen. And he 'lived on his own' as you put it, by eating garbage and sleeping in skips. Hardly a recommendation for trusting his judgment."

"He did ok."

"Oh? We found him in hospital with raging septicemia. He was hours from death. As it was he almost lost the arm."

"Oh fuck...the bandage ..." John had asked about it when Sherlock had taken his shirt off - he'd claimed it wasn't serious and John had taken him at his word.

"Yes, 'the bandage.' He was in bed for a fortnight. Then his fever cleared and he called YOU. I was curious how my brother knew a young, undistinguished medical student, but I didn't see any harm in dinner. Until he didn't come home last night. Considering his recent history, you can see how that might trouble me." 

"He was with me. Not in a skip."

The big man gave John a scathing look. "Yes, I know. I could have you arrested for that. I almost sent the police for you instead of my car ... but I wanted to look you in the eye first, see what kind of man you are."

"Arrested?! For what?"

John felt his anger simmering.

"Are you aware - no you must not be, but ignorance is not a defense - that the age of consent on our prudish little island for homosexual acts is 21? Heterosexuals can 'go at it' legally once they're sixteen, but not homosexual men. As ridiculous as that double standard is, I WILL use it to protect my brother."

"Protect your brother!?" John was suddenly furious at this ridiculous man and his threats. "Protect your brother! You want to protect Sherlock?! Where the hell were you all last year?! Do you know how I met Sherlock? Do you!? He was trying to hide from his abuser! Trying to get away from the man who was using him for sex, knocking him about and convincing him he bloody deserved it! Why do you think he got himself suspended? He'd been doing fine at that university for years, so why NOW?! Why do you think he chose to run away and 'eat garbage and sleep in skips' rather than go back there? Because Trevor was exploiting him. Taking advantage of Sherlock's... particular naïveté. Sherlock didn't know how to protect himself and no one was there to protect him - certainly not his big brother."

Sherlock's brother was pale, his lips thinned in distress. "Trevor? Victor Trevor?" He asked in a frighteningly calm voice.

"Yeah."

"And you... intervened?"

"I did what I could. It wasn't much, but it kept him out of Trevor's hands that night." John smiled to himself at the tactile memory of Victor's bone snapping under his fingers. 

The fat man glowered at John. "Out of Trevor's hands... into yours?"

"I didn't touch him!" John grimaced. "Not then. Last night ... that was consensual, I made sure of it."

The man looked at John for a long moment. He's deciding, John realized, if he's going to send me to prison or not. "Until my brother is eighteen, IF you see Sherlock, you will see him in public. You will NOT be alone with him and you will NOT take him to your flat. Do you understand?"

John took a breath. "Yeah. I do. Yeah." John understood he was lucky - not only had Sherlock's brother decided NOT to have John arrested for statutory buggery, he hadn't forbidden John to see Sherlock. That was a relief – John WANTED to see Sherlock again. And again. No more sex until Sherlock was eighteen – that was a test obviously. But John would have imposed that on himself had he known Sherlock was still seventeen.

The fat man interrupted John's reverie. "I worry about him, Mister Watson. Do I have to worry about you?"

"Mr. Holmes, you don't ever have to think about me again."

"If only I had that luxury, Mister Watson." He seemed ready to dismiss John, then he stopped. "You may not have experienced this yet - Sherlock is... impossible when he doesn't get his way."

"Mm." John tried to imagine the sweet, vulnerable genius being 'impossible.' He couldn't. 

Sherlock's brother seemed to read his mind. "Don't underestimate him." He said. "I'll be watching. Goodbye, Mister Watson."


	5. The Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't get his way.

It was an epic row. John was completely unprepared for it. 

Mycroft had, at dinner, casually mentioned meeting John Watson.

"What did you do to him?!" Sherlock demanded.

"I DIDN'T have him arrested for 'interfering' with a minor. Yet."

"You stay away from him, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. He left the table abruptly and grabbed the wireless telephone from the hall. He took it into the Library.

He rang John. He desperately needed to hear John's voice, know that he was ok

"John?" 

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm really glad you rang - you should give me your number, you don't want me waiting by the phone day and night, do you?" Sherlock could hear John's smile. It made him feel warm inside. "When can I see you again?"

"I could come over right now."

"I would love that, but..."

"But?"

"I met your brother, did he tell you?"

"Ignore everything he said, he's an idiot."

"Mm." John was noncommittal. 

"You should stay away from him." Sherlock implored.

"Yeah, he didn't give me much choice."

"You always have a choice, John."

"Right. The choice he gave me was prison." John said, an edge of anger in his voice.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment - was John angry at him? How could he fix this? "Don't let him scare you away." He begged softly.

"Away from you? Never." The anger was gone, John's voice was soft. 

"You're sure?"

"Sherlock, if I weren't sure, I wouldn't be sitting by the phone waiting for you to ring, would I?" Sherlock could hear John's smile again.

"This is serious, John."

"I know. I know he's serious - that's why we're going to follow his rules."

"Rules?" Sherlock's heart sank. Mycroft's rules were always ridiculous and not worth paying attention to.

"He didn't tell you?" John sighed. "You lied to me, Sherlock. You told me you were eighteen." He sounded disappointed.

Sherlock voiced his fury. "I can't stand his interference! He doesn't have his own life so he messes about in mine!" 

"Yeah. Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"What does it matter if I'm seventeen or eighteen?! It's stupid!" It WAS stupid - why did ANYONE care?!

"It's not stupid. If we're going to be together, I have to be able to trust you."

"You CAN trust me!"

"OK."

"You can!"

"I said OK."

"That doesn't mean ANYTHING, John."

"Trust is earned, Sherlock. Look, it feels like more, but we've only seen each other twice. We hardly know each other."

"I know you."

"But you don't. Not really."

"I KNOW YOU!"

"Sherlock... you don't." 

How could Sherlock explain about the dreams? How could he tell John that it felt like destiny that they be together... in some way - they weren't always lovers, but in the best dreams, the happiest dreams, they were. "John, I've never felt like this about anyone."

"I know. There's definitely... a connection" John paused. "Sherlock, I NEVER expected to date a man, let alone have a boyfriend."

"Oh." This was it, John was going to say they should just be friends. Sherlock would have a life of longing, close to John, but not WITH John.

"But I AM seeing YOU." Sherlock's relief was intense. "There's... I can't deny there's SOMETHING here. But it has to be more... more than just sex. We have to... grow it. We have to give it time and effort...or it will fail."

Sherlock didn't answer. He felt impatient with 'time and effort.' Couldn't they just skip ahead? Why couldn't they just skip ahead?!

"You're sulking." John said. "Stop it. Just....stop."

"John...it's just so BORING."

"Boring? I'm boring you!?"

"Not you! Mycroft's stupid rules are boring. John, I'm coming over. I NEED to see you." He said urgently. If he could just be in the same room. If he could touch John.

"Sherlock, I want to see you too... but your brother..."

Sherlock scoffed impatiently.

"Listen to me! We can't be together like that until you're eighteen. We can hang out, have dinner, lunch, a walk, get to know each other. But nothing ... physical... like last night, until your birthday."

"That's not fair!" Sherlock wailed.

"It wasn't fair of you to make me believe you're older than you are!" John snapped impatiently. "It wasn't fair to tell me that your wound wasn't serious!" Sherlock heard him exhale slowly. When he spoke again he was calmer. "Listen, Sherlock, this is an opportunity - to find out what we like about each other. 

Sherlock wanted to scream with frustration. None of this was FAIR! "I hate Mycroft!"

"Yeah, I'm with you there."

"Didn't last night mean anything!" Sherlock shouted, furious in his frustration.

"Yes!" John said calmly. "That's why I'm willing to do this – be with you, date, whatever, without sex. For now." 

"We can't go backwards!"

"Sherlock, be reasonable..." John sounded terse. "It's four months, then we have the rest of our lives to fuck if we want to."

"What did I do wrong?" Sherlock asked desperately. "Wasn't I... good enough?"

"Oh Sherlock... you were amazing. I'm NOT rejecting you."

Then why did it feel so awful?

"Pheromones!" Sherlock said suddenly. Why hadn't he realized this before? That was the answer. He felt calmer thinking about it.

"What?"

"I'm an idiot, how did I miss it? It's SO obvious! Pheromones, John! That's the attraction between us. It JUST chemistry." Sherlock would have felt proud of himself if it hadn't taken him so long to work out.

"Mm. Well, no problem then." Sarcasm - it took Sherlock by surprise. "You're bloody boffin, I'm sure you can find an antidote." John's voice was arctic.

"John...?"

"Look, I have to go. Talk later, yeah?" And John hung up before Sherlock could object. 

Sherlock sat there holding the phone for a long moment. He tried to understand what he'd done - why had John rung off so suddenly? Why had he sounded wounded? In a rush his fury returned and he hurled the phone across the room. 

"Pity." Mycroft said as the phone clattered to the floor. "I rather liked him. There's a bit more to John Watson than there appears."

"I hate you!" Sherlock cried. "Why can't you leave me alone?!"

"Because, brother mine, despite your self-portrait, you're vulnerable - as Mister Watson was kind enough to detail. And Mummy would NEVER forgive me if something happened to you."

"What did John tell you?!"

"Nothing I shouldn't have already known. Which reminds me, I'll be out of town tomorrow...." Mycroft smiled at some internal thought. "Wreaking vengeance."

"He told you about Victor." Sherlock realized.

"Yes." Mycroft said, still smiling wolfishly.

Sherlock scoffed. "You're too late to that party, brother."

"Not so late I can't fill Mister Trevor with... 'regrets.'"

"Just leave! John! Alone!" Sherlock cried. "He's not like Victor."

"We'll see, won't we."

"I really hate you, Mycroft!" Sherlock wailed and stalked off to his room. 

There was a box of NSY cold case files on his desk - a peace offering, of sorts, from Mycroft. Sherlock walked past them to his violin. He played his pique, his fear and his deep desire for John into the night.

It was almost dawn before Sherlock fell into a fitful sleep. John was in his dreams... 

The John in his dreams was unhappy - Sherlock had let him down again. John found him in an abandoned house with other drug addicts, high on heroin. John was furious. "I should bloody well leave you here." John said bitterly. But he didn't - so Sherlock thought he still cared. Until he saw Mycroft was waiting outside in a car. John put him in with his brother, but didn't get in himself. "I found him for you." John told Mycroft. "Now I'm shot of him." And John walked away. Sherlock knew that when the heroin wore off he would want to die. 

"How could you do this to me?" John asked, the pain in his voice unbearable. "To us?" "You're overreacting, don't be so dull." Sherlock told him. John caught his breath at the insult. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment. "John..." Sherlock started, knowing that he had gone too far, that he had to apologize somehow. Make John see this had all been a mistake. "No, Sherlock, it's over. I'm leaving." John had barely taken time to grab his jacket before the door was slamming behind him. Sherlock didn't know if John meant the argument was over or if THEY were over. He felt sick at the thought that John might be leaving him. Sherlock hated himself.

He and John were laughing together - it felt wonderful. Sherlock felt whole again, content. John looked at him with light and happiness in his eyes. It was the most natural thing in the world to stretch out his hand to John's neck, rubbing circles with his thumb as his fingers lightly gripped the nape. "I love you, John." Sherlock said and leaned in to kiss his friend. John recoiled. "What are you doing?" He asked. He wasn't laughing any longer. His eyes were dark. "Stop." John twisted away, out of reach. Sherlock realized with horror that he'd misjudged, miscalculated. "No..." Sherlock said quickly. "I didn't mean to..." What? What could he say that would erase the look of revulsion on John's face? "Erm, excuse me." John said, as if Sherlock were a stranger. He edged past Sherlock and took the stairs to his room two at a time. It was a minute before Sherlock recognized what he was hearing - John opening drawers, pacing back and forth. John was packing. Later, when John came downstairs, Sherlock stared steadfastly into his microscope. "Erm... Sherlock, we should talk." Sherlock didn't move, didn't breathe. Maybe if he stayed absolutely still, this nightmare would end. "I didn't ...realize ....that you had...feelings..." "Really, John, don't you think you're making rather a big deal out of this?" Sherlock still couldn't look at him. "You know how bad I am at ... people." "Sherlock, this isn't just bad, this is an ... EPIC fail. Listen, if I did something... if I led you on somehow..." Sherlock realized what John was asking - 'did I do something gay?' He was just worried about himself. Sherlock absolved him wearily. "No, John, YOU didn't do anything." (Except be perfect.) John nodded but seemed to expect something more. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say." Sherlock said. "Erm... I'm...sorry?" (I'm sorry I love you, but I DO love you, John, desperately.) Maybe if he didn't look at John, he wouldn't see the truth...

John was lying next to him in bed, but not touching Sherlock. He was separate, an island. Sherlock couldn't sleep - he knew John was leaving him for HER. John hadn't said, but it was obvious to Sherlock. Silent tears rolled down his face into his ears and his hair. His heart was breaking...

John's face was red and distorted with fury - he hurled Sherlock's skull across the room and it shattered against the fireplace. "Where is it?!" John didn't yell or scream - his voice was even, and all the more frightening for it. "What did you do with my bloody gun?!" Sherlock had given it to Mycroft - John couldn't be trusted with a gun right now. He had been angry all the time since he returned from his second tour in Afghanistan. Sherlock walked on eggshells, but John would explode at the smallest provocation - at no provocation. John picked up Sherlock's microscope and prepared to throw it across the room. "No!" Sherlock yelped and lunged for it. They struggled, slides falling from the desk and shattering on the floor. Sherlock managed to wrestle John down, managed to get a hold of his microscope – but John was trained. Suddenly letting go of the microscope made Sherlock reel. John pressed his advantage, tackling Sherlock and pinning him. Sherlock writhed under John - and John got hard. John ripped Sherlock's pajamas in half and, holding Sherlock down with his thighs, exposed himself. He took Sherlock there on the floor, roughly and dry without so much as a drop of spit. Sherlock let him. It hurt, it hurt so much... John had never touched him without care, without bringing pleasure. This was a horrible parody of their lovemaking. It hurt almost as much physically as it did psychically. Sherlock stifled his grunts of pain with his arm. After a long minute or two, John stopped. "What am I doing?" He cried. He pulled away as if contact with Sherlock burned him. "All I do is hurt you." Sherlock curled into a ball on the floor, hiding himself, sobbing. "I have to leave." John spoke Sherlock's deepest fear. "I have to stop hurting you."

"I'm sorry." John said awkwardly. "This just isn't working anymore." Sherlock looked up from the shoe he was contemplating (evidence in a murder). "You're... leaving? Why?" He felt genuinely confused. "I begged you to talk to me." John said, his voice husky. "I tried everything I could think of and you wouldn't... it's too late now." John turned to go. "John... you're all I have..." Sherlock said, stricken. John didn't turn. "No. Now you're alone. Alone is what you have." He shouldered his rucksack, picked up his suitcase and walked out the door...

Sherlock woke sweaty and exhausted. He had no idea what these dreams were - visions of possible futures, some sort of pheromone-fueled subconscious fantasy, glimpses of alternate universes, the sudden development of a complicated inner life... he might as well think it witchcraft. But one thing was clear - Sherlock should stay far away from John Watson - the man had the ability to hurt him like no one else 

Sherlock decided to spend the day at St. Barts.

\----

"Stop it." John said, grabbing Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock pushed John back against the arm of the couch. "It's ok." He mumbled, kissing John. 

John returned the kiss and tugged at his hair the way that felt so good. Sherlock pressed into John with a pleased moan and caressed the plaid cotton of John's shirt wishing desperately to tear it off him, touch his skin. Sherlock was inflamed, his desire for John driving him to distraction...it was so frustrating! 

This was John's third visit to Mycroft's home. He and Sherlock were allowed to sit together in the front room or the library with the doors open. Sherlock was forbidden to take John to his bedroom. There were MORE rules - touching allowed over the clothes, above the waist...etc. etc.

They were stupid. They were all so stupid.

Sherlock pulled John down and nuzzled his neck - he smelled amazing! John growled and kissed Sherlock again and again... Sherlock couldn't help rubbing up against John's hip, rutting... he guided John's hand down to the bulge in his trousers...

John pulled away. "Sherlock, stop making this harder!"

"I don't think I can get any harder..." Sherlock said, twisting his body against John's in a way he knew from his dreams drove John wild.

John gasped with pleasure. He took control, shoving Sherlock back onto the couch, climbing on top of him, his strong hands bruising Sherlock's arms. John's thigh drew up against Sherlock's groin and John bit into his neck. It was sublime. Sherlock wanted it - he NEEDED it. John grabbed Sherlock's chin firmly, dragging his face closer to his own, plunging his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, teeth scraping, breath frantic.

"More." Sherlock begged, rutting against John's thigh, pressing his hip into John's iron erection. John kissed him again, attacking his mouth and his neck, leaving marks. Sherlock snaked a hand between their bodies and palmed John's cock through his trousers. John groaned and pressed into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock worried the top button of John's jeans open, the second and third came undone easily and Sherlock was grabbing John's cock through the thin cotton of his pants...

"Fuck!" John exclaimed, shoving Sherlock off. He stood abruptly and turning away, rebuttoned his jeans. 

"Come back." Sherlock cried, reaching out for him.

John evaded his hands. "Stop it!" John was angry now. "Stop pushing, Sherlock. Stop bloody grabbing me. You know we can't..."

"You don't want to..." It came out as an accusation.

"Jesus...YES! I want to. You KNOW I want to. But not with your bloody brother in the next room.... fuck it, fuck this! You know the deal, Sherlock. As well as I do." He turned his back again, trying to marshal his anger.

Sherlock stood and walked to John, tentatively putting a hand on John's shoulder. When he didn't pull away, he wrapped his arms around John from behind, holding his stocky form against his own taller, thinner one. John leaned back against him. 

At first they'd had tea and Sherlock had read through the Scotland Yard files Mycroft had obtained for him and John had studied. After an hour and a half of inhabiting the same room companionably, John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and kissed him. John smelled wonderful, musky and clean, sweat and soap, salt and sea air.... what was it about the way John smelled that Sherlock couldn't resist? 

Pheromones, a voice in the back of Sherlock's head reminded him.

Right. Who cared?! As long as John was HERE, was HIS, Sherlock didn't care about the chemistry.

"I can't do this by myself." John said quietly. "We talked about it last time, we agreed... you would follow the rules."

"The rules are stupid." Sherlock said, making sure the words blew seductively by John's ear. 

"Right." John said, stiffening. He pulled out of Sherlock's embrace and walked a few steps towards the door. He turned back and the look in his eyes rooted Sherlock in place. It was.... defeat. "This is my fault." John said. "I should have known better. I thought..." He sighed. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I'm sorry." He finally looked Sherlock in the eye. "This isn't working out. We tried it and.... it isn't working. So..." John walked to the table and started packing up his books.

Sherlock felt profoundly confused. "What?" He said. "I don't understand."

John looked at him again. "Yeah. I guess you don't." He pondered for a moment, anguish on his face. Finally he schooled his features into a semblance of calm. "You're too young." John said. "I've been lying to myself because I wanted so much... I thought..." He closed his eyes. "You're too immature, and you're forcing me to...be the bad guy... be the grownup. I don't want to be with a child. I can't. So..." He looked back down at his books and finished shoving them into his rucksack. He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Goodbye." John walked past Sherlock and out into the hall.

Sherlock followed him. "You're leaving?"

John didn't look back or stop walking towards the door. "Yeah."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

John stopped walking. He sighed and turned back to Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. I'm not coming back." His face was tight with pain but there was an edge of impatience in his voice. "We aren't going to ring each other. We aren't going to meet for dinner. This is it. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock just stared, shocked.

"Ok. Yeah." John said then turned and walked out the front door.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize what exactly had just happened. John had... left him? Broken up with him? Told him he never wanted to see him again? Yes, all of those. This couldn't be happening. It was like one of the dreams, one of the bad dreams. In almost all of them Sherlock had cocked it up somehow, often with drug use.

The dreams about the drugs scared him – he could feel the high, feel the overwhelming NEED for the clarity of cocaine or for the lovely release of heroin. If he thought about it, he could feel it now, feel his blood thrumming for a hit... That's why he'd turned down opiate drugs for the pain of his infected arm. He didn't want to be THAT Sherlock, the Sherlock who constantly let everyone down, who chose drugs over John, over solving crimes, over everything. The Sherlock that John looked at with disgust.

In the other dreams about John leaving him, Sherlock had simply not paid enough attention to John's needs – he'd dismissed them as trivial when he was even aware of them. These dreams made Sherlock feel stupid. It was SO OBVIOUS what he should have done – sometimes he'd even known when it was happening, that he was messing everything up. Just not that it was irrevocable. 

What had he done HERE, NOW that had upset John so much? How could he fix this? Could he fix this? He HAD to fix this!

He replayed John's words in his mind, then gone backwards through the visits and phone calls... and he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. 

Sherlock ran out the front door. "John!" He cried. John was at the gate – Sherlock could see in his body language that he'd heard, that he was deciding whether to stop or not. He did't. Sherlock ran across the garden towards John and fell into step with him.

"I'm an idiot." He said to John's stony profile. "Mycroft... I've been ignoring Mycroft's edicts forever and these are...arbitrary. And insulting. But... I didn't understand – it's not FOR Mycroft – I should have followed those stupid rules for YOU, John. I'll do it for you. I...I'm sorry?" Sherlock up-talked the 'sorry' trying to feel his way into a real apology, but turning it into a question instead. "I'm sorry that I didn't understand sooner. But that's not an excuse. I have no excuse." Sherlock felt miserable. 

John didn't reply, but he glanced at Sherlock.

"Give me another chance, John." Sherlock said. "Please." Please John, he thought, please love me enough to forgive me. 

They walked in silence for a minute, Sherlock suppressing the urge to beg. Finally John spoke. "You've never apologized for lying to me."

Sherlock almost said 'Who CARES if I'm seventeen or eighteen!,' but caught himself. "You're....right." He admitted. "I've lied about my age forever, people take me more seriously if they think I'm older – which is stupid, by the way." Sherlock stopped himself before he could warm to the subject. "But... it upset you. I see that. I don't want to upset you, John. Ever. I'm sorry." Sherlock thought a moment – was he focusing on the wrong thing again? It was so hard to know. "I won't lie to you again. Even if it's something dumb or I don't understand WHY it matters to people." Was that the right thing to say? He meant it – he didn't want to lie to John. "I'm not saying this right. When I dream about you...leaving..." That was hard to say around the sudden lump in his throat. "I can see where I went wrong with us, I'm just too stubborn or stupid to admit it. I don't like those dreams..."

"Wait." John said, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm to stop him walking. "Dreams? You dream about us?"

"Yes."

"What kind of dreams?" John was staring at him intently.

"All kinds... "

"Describe them." John demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. "You're always a doctor, but In some you're a soldier or a writer too. I'm a detective. Or a beekeeper. Sometimes I'm.... a drug addict." It embarrassed Sherlock to admit it. "I don't like those. In the best ones, we're...together, we're lovers – sometimes we've been together for a long time. But in others we're just friends... those are awful, because I still love you the same. I still want you to be mine." Sherlock swallowed the sob that always threatened when he thought about John not being HIS. "In some, you leave me because I'm an idiot. I don't want to be that idiot."

John just stared at Sherlock for a moment. "Are they... exceptionally vivid?"

"Yes. They feel.... real. And I remember them perfectly. You...have them too?" 

John nodded, mute.

Sherlock paused – he had been curious about this. "This happens when you're sexually attracted to someone? When you love them. This is...typical?"

"No, Sherlock. It's not typical."

"Oh."

They stood there on the street, staring at each other, John's hand still clutching Sherlock's arm.

"Do you dream about... sex?" John asked. 

"Oh, yes." Sherlock smiled timidly. "Sometimes I try things... from the dreams. You like it."

"Me too." John breathed.

The conversation stalled again. They stood there together. John looked beautiful under the streetlamp, bits of gold glinting in his ginger hair, his cheeks red with his recent anger, his eyes stormy. Sherlock reached out to touch his cheek, to kiss him...

But John pulled away, his face shuttering. "I have to go." He said.

"Oh." Sherlock said. He could feel a tantrum rising in his gut, but he shoved it down. "Will you think about it? Trying again?" He hated feeling so vulnerable, hated being unable to control what would happened. It was so hard to just hand that over to John.

But it was the right thing to do. "Yeah." John said. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you."

John turned and walked away. Sherlock watched until he disappeared into the dark.


	6. A Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turns 18.

Sherlock's birthday fell on a Wednesday that year. Eighteen is a milestone birthday and – in Sherlock's case more than most – represented emancipation. No longer would he be bound by Mummy, Father or Mycroft's rules. 

(Not that Sherlock had ever felt himself particularly bound by them before, but now THEY would be forced to acknowledge it as well.)

As such, Mummy felt a celebration was in order, and she informed Father and Mycroft that their presence was required at a family dinner in a good restaurant in London. 

Mummy also invited her younger son's boyfriend. That Mycroft continued to tolerate that relationship spoke volumes about the young man's character. She had long despaired of either of her sons having friends let alone a love relationship, so she was extremely curious about John Watson and prepared to like him immensely.

That Sherlock was in a relationship with another man... well, Mummy wouldn't have chosen that for him. But it hardly mattered if he was happy and treated well. His Father was having a much harder time with it, but agreed with Mummy that SOMEONE loving their boy was better than no one. But he was reserving judgment on John Watson. 

\---

Mummy is coming for your birthday, Sherlock, and she wants a family dinner Saturday night."

"Mycroft!"

"Don't blame me, brother mine, you know how Mummy is when she's made up her mind."

"Bollocks!" Sherlock swore, flopping down on the couch next to John.

"Mummy asked me to invite John."

"John!? Why?"

"I imagine she wants to meet him."

"Yeah, it's ok, I don't have to..." John started.

"Actually, John, you DO have to." Mycroft told him. "Mummy was very clear about that. She's.... excited -" He said the word like it pained him. "-to meet you."

"Oh. Well, then, of course - if I don't have rotations."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "You won't." He said as he walked out of the room.

John hated the thought that Mycroft might manipulate his schedule at St. Barts, but he chose his battles with Sherlock's ominous older brother. "Speaking of your birthday." John said, touching Sherlock's hand. "If you aren't busy on Wednesday, do you want to come over? To my flat? I'll cook dinner. In my flat. Where my bedroom is."

Sherlock giggled and wrapped his arms around John. "That's the perfect birthday present." He proclaimed happily. 

But John didn't end up cooking on Wednesday. When Sherlock arrived at his flat, they retired directly to John's bedroom. 

They'd talked a little about sex, about what they wanted to do with each other, but John was trying not to have expectations. Still he bought condoms and a new bottle of lubricant. He put a stack of clean towels on his dresser. And he'd quizzed Nigel thoroughly about all the things that boys could get up to together. Best to be prepared. 

As soon as the bedroom door shut behind him, Sherlock pushed John against it and kissed him. John was instantly hard and straining against his trousers. "Erm... happy birthday..." John stuttered as Sherlock's hands traveled his body, tugging at his clothes. Then Sherlock slid away. John began to protest – until he realized Sherlock had knelt in front of him. Long, pale fingers were unfastening his trousers, running over his hips, up his belly inside his shirt and finally caressing his cock. 

“Fuck!” He wanted this so much. The months of waiting had been difficult - even after Sherlock stopped trying to sabotage their efforts. In some ways it was even harder then, both of them hot and bothered, teetering on the ledge, without the libido inhibiting rush of irritation. John had taken to wanking before seeing Sherlock, to take the edge off, AND after, to relieve his painful arousal.

But now, the waiting was over. John hoped he'd live up to Sherlock's expectations. 

The lush lips brushed against the head of John's cock and then he was in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock bobbed and then pushed until his nose rested against John's groin, swallowing him whole. John groaned and tugged lightly at Sherlock's hair. Sherlock pulled back to the sensitive head and sucked, then pulled back farther to lick precum from the slit. "Oh God!" John moaned and Sherlock took him all again, looking up at John's face with clear, blue eyes full of wickedness.

John pulled him up. "Kiss me." He said. “I need to touch your skin.” John unbuttoned one of Sherlock’s shirt buttons.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock sighed, kissing John's mouth and frotting himself against John’s thigh. John quickly unbuttoned all the buttons and opened the shirt wide. He ran his hands down the pale, hairless chest, feeling the alarming prominence of Sherlock’s ribs, the tight buds of his nipples. John pulled his own shirt off, over his head. “Is this OK?” He asked Sherlock. 

“God, yes.” Sherlock said his hands exploring John's taught pectorals and abs. John moved the hand to his nipple and moaned in pleasure when the long fingers circled and rubbed it. Sherlock’s other hand caressed John’s cock – still protruding rudely upright from his opened trousers. “Oh, Christ, yes.” John murmured thrusting into Sherlock’s hand, rubbing his thigh against Sherlock’s erection. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock again, earning a small, pleased moan.

“You haven’t been kissed enough.” John whispered.

“All we've done for months is kiss.” Sherlock said, his lips following John’s.

“Never enough.” John said. "I can never have enough of you." John nibbled on his jaw and ran his tongue along the jawline to his ear where he exhaled. Sherlock quivered. John kissed him again and again, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, held him close. John lost himself in the other man’s touch, his scent, the feel of their skin pressed together. John reached down and palmed Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. He was fully hard and tenting the fabric. He unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and started tugging on the trouser buttons. “Can I touch you?” John asked. “Will you let me rub our cocks together?

If possible, Sherlock grew harder. “Yes!” he gasped.

John pulled him close again, kissed him, then returned to the buttons. He eased trousers and pants together down long thighs. Sherlock’s cock was as slim and elegant as the rest of him, pale pink where it peeped from the foreskin. 

John leaned down and took the head in his mouth.

John was a novice cocksucker – Sherlock's being the only cock he had sucked, and only the once – but he knew what he liked and he applied himself. John looked up and locked eyes with Sherlock. The younger man looked amazed, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. John reached between Sherlock’s legs and brushed his perineum with his knuckles. He caressed his bollocks then skimmed back over the sensitive perineum to finger the outside of Sherlock’s puckered hole. John glanced up at Sherlock’s face again to see the crystal eyes unfocused, glazed over with pleasure. John continued his attentions (ignoring the drool streaming from his mouth, the overwhelming urge to gag - John had renewed respect for every girl who’d ever blown him) until he felt Sherlock begin to tremble, then he pulled away and kissed those full lips again, loving the feel of them sliding against his neck, across his cheek to his mouth and lingering there, teeth and tongue and hot breath. 

"On the bed." He said. They achieved the platform quickly and John pushed Sherlock down onto his back and climbed on top of him, stretching out full length and rubbing their cocks together, the saliva on Sherlock’s making them slide against one another easily. The pleasure was intense. John filled his hand with lube and stroked it onto Sherlock and then himself. He thrust and moaned and gripped Sherlock’s hips fiercely. He felt Sherlock bucking against him, writhing, his hands everywhere on John’s body, making his skin tingle wherever they roamed. Sherlock’s mouth was on him, biting and licking and tonguing him.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist. "John... I want you inside me." 

John moaned at the thought. "Oh yes." He picked up a condom and started to rip open the package. Sherlock's hand stopped him. 

"I don't want that." Sherlock said. "I want you."

"We need to be safe." John said. 

"You've been tested." Sherlock said. "I'm a virgin." Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Unless you're fucking other people..."

John laughed. "Of course I'm not. You know I'm not." He tossed the condom and grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto his hand. He reached down between them and rubbed it against Sherlock's tight bud. Sherlock rocked his hips – bucking their cocks together and pushing down onto John's finger. John penetrated Sherlock and frigged him, letting him get used to the sensation, helping the tight ring of muscle relax. 

"More." Sherlock groaned. John obliged with a second finger. Sherlock began rocking rhythmically against John's hand, fucking himself on John's fingers, rubbing their cocks together. "Ooooh"

John tried a third finger and Sherlock grunted. John ghosted by the walnut-shaped prostate, evoking a yelp, then eased his fingers in and out slowly until Sherlock started rocking again. He rocked faster, panting. "You!" Sherlock gasped. "I need you now."

John nodded and pulled his fingers out of Sherlock's arse. "It will be easier for you on your hands and knees, especially for your first time." (Thank you, Nigel). Sherlock rolled over and laughingly presented his arse to John. "I love your arse." John said and kissed a narrow flank, an arching glute, and the deep crevasse. Then he took another handful of lubricant and pressed the lion's share into Sherlock. The rest he spread on himself. He lined his cock up to the little pink bud. "I'm going to ruin your arse." He breathed into Sherlock's ear and pushed in. 

"Ungh!" Sherlock cried. 

"That's the head." John said. He reached around for Sherlock's prick and stroked it's length. "Relax, love." He soothed.

Sherlock nodded and after a minute he started rocking again, just a little and John pushed in farther. They repeated this until John had his pubis pressed tightly against Sherlock's arse. "That's it, love, You've got it all." John said, kissing Sherlock's shoulder blade. "How does it feel?"

"Big." Sherlock gasped and they laughed together, John's cock feeling the laughter quivering through Sherlock's abdomen.

"Tell me when you're ready." John said.

"I feel stretched... it feels good, John. I'm ready."

John carefully withdrew an inch and pressed back in. Sherlock moaned appreciatively. John repeated the move, then pulled out farther. Soon he was pulling the whole length of his cock out and then back in to Sherlock's arse.

"Yes!" Sherlock cried, Shoving his hips back against John. John began to thrust in earnest, his balls smacking against Sherlock's arse. He reached up and took a fistful of Sherlock's dark curls and tugged in time with his thrusting. "Fuck me!" Sherlock demanded. "Fuck me, John!"

John shifted position, climbing higher over Sherlock and spreading his legs wider, he could stab deeper this way. Sherlock vocalized his appreciation without words. John fucked Sherlock hard. Railed his arse, reamed it.

"Yes!" Sherlock was shouting and grunting, pushing backwards in rhythm with John. All at once, Sherlock was still – then he wrenched a hand up over his own mouth in an attempt to muffle the cry that accompanied the first spurt of cum. Sherlock arched his back and pressed his face into the mattress as his cry turned to a wail.

John continued his hard thrusting and a moment later he felt himself begin to shoot. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder to mute his grunts and moans of pleasure even as Sherlock continued to shudder beneath him.

Finally they lay still. John rolled off Sherlock, laughing happily, enjoying the post-orgasm high. “You’re so beautiful.” He told Sherlock and kissed his temple. “I think you enjoyed that.”

“Obviously.” John smirked at Sherlock’s return to confident superiority.

But Sherlock’s face began to look bewildered, like he couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. “Are you OK, love?” John asked, caressing his cheek.

“Sherlock’s crystal eyes slowly focused on John. “Yes.” He whispered. Then his face crumpled and Sherlock turned his head, ashamed.

“What is it?” John asked. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” He kissed the tears on Sherlock’s jaw. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! John, this...you are perfect!”

John laughed again, more softly, love for the strange young man welling up inside him and filling his entire being. He kissed Sherlock’s face and then his lips, letting some urgency surface from under the lassitude. "You make me happy." He said.

They ordered Chinese takeaway and ate from the cartons, indian-style on John's bed. John couldn't quite believe he'd actually bedded this Elvish prince, this young genius, this astoundingly clever man who somehow was HIS boyfriend.

It was too wonderful to last, he thought. John pushed that out of his mind and pushed the takeaway cartons off the bed so he could make love to his man again, more slowly this time, face-to-face. John watched his lover's crystal eyes as they glazed over and Sherlock shuddered and shivered through another orgasm, making John's chest warm and sticky with his cum. After his own climax, John held Sherlock in his arms and watched him fall asleep. He brushed a few damp locks of hair back from the strange and beautiful face of his lover.

\---

When the car pulled up, John was ready. He knew what this dinner was - a job interview. That Sherlock had already given him the job would not stop Mummy and Father from putting John through his paces.

He held Sherlock's hand in the car. John could barely contain all the happiness that wrought – that JOHN was loved by this amazing boy was ridiculously hard to believe. And yet...

John had bought a new dress shirt and borrowed a jacket from one of Nigel's friends. His shoes were polished and his trousers crisply ironed. Compared to Sherlock's tailored elegance and Mycroft's fussy formality, John knew he looked like what he was - a penniless and completely average bloke. But John wasn't trying to hide that. He really DUDN'T know why Sherlock loved HIM, but it certainly wasn't because John pretended to be something he wasn't.

Mummy didn't bat an eye at his undistinguished garb. While Sherlock alternately sulked and beamed happily at John, Mycroft tried (not very hard) to suppress put upon sighs, and Father seemed distant and distracted, Mummy greeted John warmly, took his arm in hers and led him to their table.

"John - may I call you John?"

"Please."

The restaurant was French - Sherlock hadn't warned him. Mycroft sneered while Mummy pretended not to notice John's mangled pronunciation. Sherlock seemed oblivious, giving his father determinedly monosyllabic responses to questions John couldn't quite hear. John couldn't help but smile happily when their eyes met across the table.

The food was rich - not what he would have preferred while feeling nervous - but John kept calm and measured, politely discussing politics, weather and religion with Mummy. The only real upset was when the maitre'd told Mycroft there was a call for him and, with an apologetic glance at Mummy's frown, he left the table for five minutes. But he was back in time for the cheese when the real interrogation began.

"Tell me how you met my boy." Mummy said to John. "Was it when he was living rough? Did you take pity on him? I hated to think of him all alone..."

"Erm... no. I met Sherlock at University. I was visiting with my rugby team and... well, we ...met."

"Rugby! I didn't realize you're an athlete."

"I was. Medical school doesn't leave much time for it."

"That's right, Mycroft said you're studying medicine. Have you thought about what specialty you'll focus on? Sports medicine, perhaps?"

"I've considered that, Mrs. Holmes, but as I'm at St. Barts on an Army scholarship, I'll likely focus on emergency medicine and surgery. Which will suit me just fine."

A line appeared between Mummy's brows. "An Army scholarship? So you intend to serve?"

"Yes, of course. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers - I had six weeks of basic training over the summer break."

"Sherlock KNOWS you're a soldier?"

John looked across the table at Sherlock. His eyes were completely opaque, but John saw the stubborn little frown Sherlock always had when the subject of John's service came up. "We've discussed it." John said.

'Discussed' was a kind term for the fits Sherlock had thrown. It had been much, MUCH worse than the tantrum over waiting until he was eighteen to continue their sexual relationship. John had really thought - more than once - that he would never see Sherlock again. But after a day or so, Sherlock would be waiting for John outside St. Barts with lunch or some other peace offering, and everything would be perfect until the next time it came up. 

Mummy followed his gaze to her son. John supposed she could read Sherlock's expression better than he could. "We've discussed it." John repeated. "But I'm not sure Sherlock has accepted it."

Mummy cocked her head. "Have you thought about.... changing your direction now that Sherlock is ...a consideration? I'm certain Mycroft could ..."

"No." John said firmly. "I've made changes in my life for Sherlock, for this relationship, because he's worth it. But I honor my commitments."

"If it's the tuition money..."

"No. John repeated. "I don't need money and I definitely don't want Mycroft to wrangle a discharge. Or any special treatment whatsoever. As I said, I have and I will continue to make accommodations for Sherlock. But THIS is not negotiable."

"But..."

"Leave him alone, Lydia." Sherlock's father said. "He won't be railroaded." He addressed John for the first time. "I respect your determination, Mr. Watson, and your independence. If Sherlock wants to keep you, he'll have to learn that he has to be the one to compromise sometimes." Father turned to Sherlock. "I approve your choice of companion. I didn't think I would, but I see why you like him."


	7. The Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is real? Can wanting something enough make it happen?

John woke feeling extremely disoriented. He'd been having the most remarkable dream - he was young again, still in medical school, and his body was so strong! He flexed and stretched remembering how it had felt to be at his physical peak - when he was just starting to lose some of the rugby muscle to the rigours of rotations, endless study and bad food. The energy, the power of that body...

And oh god, the fucking! John realized he had a hard-on and reached down into his pajamas to stroke it. It sent pleasant jolts down to his toes and up through his nipples, and into the clenching bud of his anus. He'd been fucking in that dream - John felt like he was half in it still, living in the crowded flatshare, trying to keep the noise down so as not to annoy his flatmates too much. The stamina he'd had then! The propensity to cum two or even three times ... (when there'd been the time - medical school was no joke.) He'd been fucking in that dream, really reaming a boy doggy style, a fist in his black curls, other hand on an alabaster flank - and he was loving it, the boy was begging for more...

It was jarring - John could feel how much he loved the boy, how incredibly happy he was to be with him, but that wasn't quite right. John had had sex with a boy or two, but love? And the sex was ROUGH. The only time he'd ever had that kind of sex was, God, when he'd gotten pissed and more than a little high with one of his flatmates and ended up double-teaming the flatmate's boyfriend. That had been hot - insanely hot - but he hadn't felt love, or even much affection, for the boy. Not then nor the next morning when John woke up alone with him and he wanted another go. Shagging him sober had been even better - knowing that he really had wanted it that much....

What was his name? John could only remember his smooth chestnut skin and how the tight bubble of gluteal muscles felt under his hands... ung, he was really hard now!

He hadn't thought about that boy in years! Not since he let Lieutenant Strong give him a blow job in the showers. Strong was a talented cocksucker... John had thought more than once about seeking him out for another. But it was one thing to go with it if something like that presented itself (like Nigel's boyfriend had presented his perfect, round arse for fucking). It was something else entirely to purposefully MAKE it happen. John had never been interested enough for that.

He drifted pleasantly through memories - not sure how much was part of the dream and how much was real. John relaxed and enjoyed it, reveling in his young body... it was a good thing he'd been strong. Medical school had chewed right through him - in reality he'd been way too tired to shag most of the time, let alone maintain a relationship... but somehow he'd had a relationship in the dream, a wonderful, contentious, fulfilling relationship - which, come to think of it is how he KNEW it was a dream.

He had time for all sorts of things in that dream - rugby, hanging out in pubs, rows with his boyfriend...

And! Sherlock had been there! He was even younger than John, an awkward proto-Sherlock, all arms and legs and surly enthusiasm... a coltishly charming, young genius throwing tantrums, enthusing over murders, and disappearing at inopportune times - doing all the things Sherlock did now with a youthful energy that captivated him. 

Sherlock had been in trouble. And John had saved him...or he'd tried to at least. They'd had that almost immediate bond then as kids that they had had in real life...

John smiled to himself at the fanciful thought of meeting teen Sherlock. He'd have to ask him for a picture of his younger self - see if his dream conception matched reality in any way.... he laughed and drifted, still touching himself lazily, still embracing the vivid dream.

He'd taken young Sherlock to dinner - Thai curries and beer. He'd been so sweetly nervous in his nice suit and rock band t-shirt, like a boy on his first date. And then he'd trembled under John's hands when he kissed him...Sherlock had fumbled at first, but the feeling of his lush mouth against John's was wonderful.... and Sherlock was a quick study....John loved kissing almost as much as he loved fucking... and kissing Sherlock was fantastic....he had loved it when John buried his fingers in his curls and tugged on his hair ... sensitive follicles, he said...Sherlock ...

Sherlock?

John jerked out of the pleasant doze. He was still ragingly hard, but he pulled his hand away. Sherlock! 

Everyone thought they were a couple, now his bloody subconscious was joining in. 'Traitor!' He told it.

But he had to giggle a little. Dream fucking teen Sherlock had been amazing. He didn't look feminine with his broad shoulders and furred legs, but he was strikingly gorgeous, long and lean... more androgynous at that age but for the hardness of his prick against John's leg....and the way he took cock.... John manhandled him like he never could a woman... and teen dream Sherlock had been gagging for it... crying out John's name... moaning and gasping and begging for more...it was SO hot... and after, curling up together and loving him, loving Sherlock, so profoundly... wanting to take care of him... feeling so content...

John sat up abruptly and tried to shake the strange dream off. He was in the living room - he must have fallen asleep on the couch again. Someone had tucked a blanket around him and it felt cozy. It had to have been Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister in Cornwall.

His prick still throbbed. Maybe if he cranked one out in the loo (with some porn on his phone to get the images of Sherlock out of his head) he could go to bed and back to sleep. 

John stood up slowly - he still felt off-kilter, like maybe THIS was the dream, like maybe he really was a young medical student in love with a strikingly attractive, teenaged genius.... 

He scoffed at himself and padded down the hall to the loo.

Sherlock must have left the light on in the bathroom again, John thought as he pushed open the door and walked in - right into Sherlock...

"Ung, sorry!" John said, stepping back. "Didn't realize you were in here." 

Sherlock was standing over the sink - slumping really. He looked up and John saw his face in the mirror - his eyes were red and swollen, his face blotched and his nose runny, like he had a nasty cold. Or like he had been crying.

Sherlock quickly looked away, bowing his head and splashing water onto his face.

"Are you ok?" John asked, stepping back into the room tentatively. He'd never seen Sherlock distraught, undone, like this - had something terrible happened? Was it Mrs. Hudson? Or Molly? He reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder with some urgency. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" 

"Nothing." Sherlock's voice was rough. "Nightmare." 

He was shirtless, wearing only pajama pants low on his hips. The long, white expanse of his back looked just like it had when John had fucked him in dreamland. That sent an unexpected jolt to his cock. 

To distract himself - and Sherlock too - John started to babble about his dream. "I had the strangest dream - you were in it, Sherlock, but you were young, just seventeen, eighteen. I was in medical school and we were friends ..." 

He laughed a little nervously remembering how it had felt to kiss teen dream Sherlock. John rubbed Sherlock's shoulders - trying to let him know he wasn't laughing at him, at his distress. "You dropped out of Uni and came to London. I took you to dinner and then you took me to the rooftop of this weird abandoned building..."

Sherlock stared at John in the mirror, his eyes looked haunted. "What happened on the roof?" He asked hoarsely.

"Oh, erm, you told me you used to sleep there when you were living rough - I think you did THAT mostly to inconvenience Mycroft." 

Sherlock turned towards John. He looked even more haggard without the mirror between them. "What else?" Sherlock demanded.

John hated how anguished he looked, how sad. "You told me how you would barricade the door to the roof to feel safe - I realized how dangerous it had been, living on the streets, how frightened you - teenaged you - must have been."

"What else?" Sherlock asked again. He looked terrified, his face pale as a sheet but with splotches of red from the sobbing - John thought he MUST have been sobbing. "What else did we do on the roof?" The question was intense.

John had kissed him, he could remember it vividly, taste it. "I, erm, think we were... there was a view of the Thames. We looked at the Thames." John said lamely.

"And you kissed me."

Surprised, John searched Sherlock's ravaged face. "How did you know?" He asked. How HAD Sherlock deduced that? How could he?

"I had the same dream." Sherlock said softly. He avoided looking at John.

John found his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again. It wasn't entirely comfortable, but he left it there. "Thought you had a nightmare." He said.

For just a second, their eyes met and John saw all the pain Sherlock carried. Sherlock quickly looked away, his eyes darting around the room miserably. And suddenly... John understood - waking up to find that he and John were just friends, not the happy lovers they had been in the dream, THAT was Sherlock's nightmare.

"Oh." John said. "Sherlock..."

"Don't." Sherlock snapped and walked away, out of the toilet. 

John didn't know what to do. After a moment, he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Sherlock was sitting in the dark living room, his form jutting out of the shadow of his chair like a statue. 

He couldn't be surprised at Sherlock's feelings – John had realized before, years ago, that Sherlock not only loved him, but loved him 'like that.' It was after Moriarty's trial, in that horrible whirlwind before Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Barts, making John – and the world – believe he'd killed himself. They'd been running around London – this was before they were called in about the missing children – and Sherlock had been having fun, he'd been enjoying the chase. It disturbed John that Sherlock was so caught up in Moriarty. Moriarty had kidnapped John and they'd spent an hour together, a tense, horrifying, tedious hour waiting for Sherlock to come to the pool. John had seen clearly how much Moriarty envied and hated him because of his closeness with Sherlock. John had been certain that Moriarty would kill him that night, kill him in front of Sherlock as a sort of demonstration, a declaration of Moriarty's own twisted obsession with Sherlock. After that, John couldn't shake the feeling that for Moriarty, killing John was 'unfinished business' that he would get to eventually.

John was feeling particularly vulnerable while Sherlock was caught up in Moriarty's schemes. He didn't think that Sherlock was paying attention, but, of course, he was.

"I won't let him hurt you, John." Sherlock had said, out of the blue. They had just returned to the flat, still high on adrenaline, and run up the stairs together. In the kitchen, John had stopped, suddenly wary of the empty, darkened rooms. And Sherlock had said it: "I won't let him hurt you, John."

John had turned to Sherlock. "Who?" He had asked, although he knew who. 

Sherlock hadn't replied. He'd just smiled a little and reached out to smooth a bit of John's hair at his temple. John saw it in Sherlock's face then, all the love – and all the desire – Sherlock had for him. 

John wasn't shocked. Their friendship was close, consuming – it wasn't a big leap to becoming more. John had never had a boyfriend, but he'd had sex with men here and there, he was bisexual ENOUGH. And John loved Sherlock too. So when Sherlock's fingers brushed against his skin, and he saw the adoration in Sherlock's eyes, John thought, 'yes.' 'Yes, I can do this.' 'Yes, I want this with Sherlock.' 'Yes, this will work.' And he had caught Sherlock's hand in his own and brought it to his lips – acceptance, invitation, confirmation.... John had expected Sherlock's smile to broaden and then they would kiss... 

But Sherlock's eyes had clouded and his smile had faded. With his knuckles still pressed against John's lips he had gone rigidly still. His hand trembled and John got the impression that it was all Sherlock could do not to snatch his hand away. He let go of Sherlock and raised his own hands, palms out in front of himself, warding off the panic, fear and... hatred... John now saw in Sherlock's features. 

"I'm sorry." John said. He was confused – he HADN'T been wrong, he hadn't misinterpreted Sherlock's signals. 

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom. The next day Sherlock acted like it had never happened. And then everything started spinning out of control. Then Sherlock had jumped and part of John had died with him. 

When Sherlock returned, there'd been no hint of the sexual longing John had seen that night. John hadn't forgotten about it, exactly, but he didn't think about it. It was an anomaly. Until now. 

John wasn't sure what to do. He'd offered Sherlock what he clearly wanted back then and been rejected. A lot had happened since that night – not just Sherlock's 'death' and years-long absence, but Mary, marriage, Rosie...Mary shooting Sherlock, finding out about her lies, Mary jumping in front of the bullet meant for Sherlock and dying...

John had forgiven Sherlock. He still loved the man, still wanted to work with him, wanted to have Sherlock in his life. But more than that? If it hadn't been for that remarkable, vivid dream, John would't even consider more with Sherlock now. 

But that dream... John could still conjure it, conjure the feelings he'd had as a young man falling in love...

The more he thought about the dream, the more he remembered. Not just a nighttime walk along a river looking at the stars, or a date on a rooftop in London, but long days at the hospital looking forward to seeing Sherlock... blistering, tantrum-fueled rows.... equally as blistering sex.... lazy hours lying in each other's arms.... moving into their first flat together....picnicking on the living room floor on biscuits and tea then fucking on that same floor... seeing Sherlock's beaming face in the audience as he walked across the stage at his graduation from St. Barts... following Sherlock into a crime scene, watching, still amazed after the years they'd spent together, as Sherlock looked around for three minutes then named the murderer and his motive... Sherlock's unhappiness when John officially joined the army... Sherlock's sudden, irrational jealousy of Stanley, one of the other soldiers in John's unit ...Sherlock's fear- and panic-fueled rage when John was called to go to Afghanistan... meeting in Germany during his first leave, seeing Sherlock's shining face in the airport, grabbing him and kissing him right there in the middle of Rammstein, not caring what anyone else thought, just so happy to see his man... going directly to the hotel together and not leaving their room – or putting on clothes – until John HAD to go to the airport for his flight back to Afghanistan... trying to make Sherlock laugh before he boarded his flight... hating the tense set of Sherlock's jaw and trying to reassure him that he would be fine in Afghanistan... kissing Sherlock one last time before running onto the plane at the last moment... some of his mates on the plane teasing him about his 'cute boyfriend'... other blokes looking through him, turning away... hanging a snapshot in his bunk of he and Sherlock grinning at the camera, their arms around each other...missing Sherlock, missing him so much it hurt....

What did John want now?

And what did Sherlock want?


	8. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when your dreams are so much better than your life?

Had they really had the same dream?

John glanced around the dim kitchen. "What did you eat last night?" He called to the dark silhouette in the living room.

"It wasn't drugs." Sherlock said. 

"What?"

"You asked what I ate last night – nothing, by the way – because you think we were drugged into having the same, or similar, vivid dream. It wasn't drugs."

"Some sort of gas, maybe?"

"Maybe."

"But you don't think so."

"No."

"Hypnotism? Hypnotic suggestion?"

"Maybe." Sherlock sounded distracted.

"So? What are your theories, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. "I don't know."

"You don't seem concerned."

"Mm."

John felt close to exploding. "People don't just 'share dreams,' Sherlock. SOMEONE did this to us." The kettle had boiled. John swallowed his frustration and poured hot water into the mugs he'd prepared. He added sugar to one and milk to the other. "Maybe we didn't have the same dream, then." John suggested.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Victor was being 'difficult' and you broke his finger. I was worried about avoiding him so you invited me to sleep in your room in the visitors hall. We walked down the river path together and watched Venus rise. You were exhibiting at least four of the seven signs of male sexual arousal during the walk, but when I offered sex, you turned me down. Your refusal was....embarrassing. Confusing. I left. But I watched you play rugby the next day. After your game I returned the jumper you lent me. Should I go on?"

John set a cup of tea down next to Sherlock. "No, no need." He said. John sat across from Sherlock and sipped his own tea. "We should talk."

"We are talking."

"We should talk about why it's upset you so much."

"I'm not upset."

"You called it a nightmare." John said.

"I said I'd HAD a nightmare."

John leaned forward, towards Sherlock. "It was a good dream." He said softly. "Waking up here-" John gestured at the room around them. "It's depressing. It's left me...discontented."

He finally had Sherlock's full attention.

"Feeling young again, having my whole life ahead of me." John continued. "Falling in love, that... wonderful relationship....and we made it work! We made it last – that life wasn't perfect, but it was happier - it was better - than the one I have. I can't help thinking, 'what I wouldn't give to have THAT life, instead of this?'" 

It was true. John felt like they'd been shown a grand buffet, then sat in the corner with moldy bread and water.

"And then the dreams within the dreams." John mused. "All different lives. Some good, some...terrible, but ALL about US. You and me, Sherlock. Always together. That means something." 

Sherlock's face was stormy.

"And one of them, one of the dreams, was about US as we are, HERE – and it wasn't one of the good ones." John closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a sigh. The dream had been so real. "You said it – young you: 'In the best dreams, we're lovers.'" John paraphrased, hearing his dream Sherlock saying it in his head. "'But in others we're just friends... that's hard, because I still love you the same.'"

Sherlock seemed to shrink into his chair.

What wouldn't John give to be that ...happy? Nothing, he realized, there was nothing he wouldn't give, nothing he wouldn't risk. "We could give it a shot." John said, trying to keep the terror he felt out of his voice. "Maybe we really could be that happy, Sherlock. Together." He remembered one of the best dream lives. "We could retire to the country someday, you could keep bees – you love bees. I could open a medical practice, or write. We could make each other happy." John studied Sherlock – he was trembling. "I'm offering this, Sherlock, wholeheartedly." 

There was no answer, no movement.

"I know you have feelings for me."

"Yes." John barely heard the syllable. 

"I'm going to touch you." John said. And he did. He stretched out his hand and laid it on Sherlock's knee. When Sherlock didn't object, John pushed himself out of his chair and knelt in front of his friend, moving his hand up his thigh. "You feel so familiar." John said. "I know your body." He ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock's cheek into his hair.

Sherlock had shut his eyes, but he didn't object.

"You ARE beautiful." John told him, ghosting his fingers over Sherlock's lips. "I want to kiss you. May I?"

Sherlock nodded once, minutely. John leaned in carefully. He played his thumb over Sherlock's lush lower lip parting it from the top. He pressed his mouth gently against Sherlock's face, kissing him, sliding his lips onto Sherlock's and adding more pressure. Sherlock didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's dark tangles and tugged very slightly. Sherlock's breath caught.

"I know you like that." He whispered and kissed Sherlock's mouth again, worrying that lower lip between his own, feeling a spark of arousal in his own groin. He lightly caressed Sherlock's hand then lifted it and placed it against his ribs. "Touch me." John whispered. "Kiss me."

Sherlock moved slightly, lifting his chin. John leaned in to kiss him again and Sherlock met his lips, yielded under them. John increased his pressure and ran the tip of his tongue between Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock gasped and clutched at John, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. He dragged John closer.

"Yes..." John moaned against Sherlock's mouth. He was kneeling on Sherlock's chair, one knee between Sherlock's legs. He slid his leg up to Sherlock's groin and pressed it against what he found there. Sherlock's arms wrapped around him like iron bars, bruising his flesh. But with Sherlock's tongue in his mouth, John barely felt it. He turned his head to kiss Sherlock's neck – he'd always loved Sherlock's neck...

Sherlock took hold of John by his hair and forced his head back to where he could kiss him. John grunted and tried to push himself into a more comfortable position within Sherlock's crushing embrace. He could feel Sherlock's erection against his belly feel Sherlock's demanding kisses on his mouth. John couldn't catch his breath....

Sherlock shoved John away abruptly and his lungs filled with air – he was gasping. He let himself slide down to the floor and rested his head on Sherlock's knee. That had gotten intense fast.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said. He was shaking all over, trembling. John realized that Sherlock was afraid.

"It's OK, love." John reassured him, caressing his calf, pressing his lips against Sherlock's pajama clad knee.

This was Victor Trevor's fault, John now knew. He remembered that awful, horrible dream within the dream – John hadn't been there to put a stop to Trevor's abuse, so Sherlock had suffered through it – it had got worse the longer it went on, much worse. Sherlock came out...damaged. John didn't want to think what Victor had done to make Sherlock this afraid of a lover's touch. Victor Trevor deserved whatever Mycroft had done to him. 

He felt Sherlock's fingers in his hair, stroking lightly. John rubbed a little circle on Sherlock's foot with his thumb, enjoying the sensation of Sherlock petting his head. 

Maybe, if John were patient....he rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's knee.

"I c-can't do this, John." Sherlock said in a voice that shredded John's heart. 

"We'll go slowly." John said. "Only what you're comfortable with."

"I can't."

"We... we could go to therapy..."

"No!" Sherlock's voice rose with fear.

"I know he hurt you...."

"Stop it!"

"...but I'm not him."

"John!"

"I would never hurt you!" John was sitting up now, still at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock was cringing back into his chair. "Shhhh." John said, laying his head back down on Sherlock's knee. "Shhhh, it's OK. you're OK." John traced the contours of Sherlock's ankle with light fingers. Eventually he felt Sherlock's body relax.

It was late. John felt his eyes getting heavy. He could still feel the dream inside him, ready to play out again, show him what he didn't have. What he'd never have now. 

"You should go to bed, John." Sherlock said. 

"I don't want to."

"You're falling asleep."

"Yes." John said. Sherlock stroked his hair again. It felt good. "Mmmmm."

You're lonely."

"Yes." John said. "You too."

"But I'm used to it."

"I see you, Sherlock. I SEE you. I see how lonely you are. How afraid. I love you and I see you."

Sherlock made an odd sound and John looked up. There were tears on Sherlock's face. 

"Sherlock...love..." John reached up and wiped a tear with his thumb. "You're not alone."

Sherlock sighed. 

"Sleep with me." John said. "Just sleep. I won't touch you. You can pet my head some more. I like that." 

Sherlock didn't speak for so long that John almost fell asleep right there with his head on Sherlock's lap. "In my bed." Sherlock said, jarring John awake. "Let's sleep in my bed."

"OK." John roused himself and stood up. He offered Sherlock his hand. When he took it, John pulled him up out of the chair. Then he led Sherlock to his room. "What side should I take?"

Sherlock hesitated. "The window. I'm by the door." So he can escape, John realized.

"OK." John said and walked around the bed and climbed in. He curled up on his side facing the window, his back to Sherlock. He felt Sherlock climb gingerly onto the other side. His breath was rapid, panicky, but he lay down. John felt a tentative hand on his hair. He didn't move. "That's nice." He breathed.

Sherlock continued to stroke his head and John drifted off. His younger self welcomed him, wrapped his arms around Sherlock and grinned like he had in the snapshot over John's bunk. He thought he felt Sherlock's lips on the back of his neck and his awareness swam back to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's breath was hot on his nape, his hand had strayed from John's hair and roamed downward, over John's arm, down his side, lingering where he found the exposed skin where his shirt had hiked up. Then he moved lower, feeling John's arse. John kept still, his breathing deep and even. Sherlock moved his hand back up under John's shirt and pressed himself against John's back, holding him tightly across the chest. Sherlock was sobbing and shaking, his face pressed into John's neck. "I love you." He whispered. "Oh John, I love you so much!" His sobs continued, but his hand slowly traveled down John's chest to his abdomen, rested there then dove down into his pajamas onto John's cock. Sherlock stroked John with his hand and rubbed himself against John's arse, growing hard. John risked a movement, grinding his arse back into Sherlock's groin and Sherlock groaned. Sherlock rose up and pulled John onto his back, he leaned in and kissed John passionately, his tongue going deep, his lips tasting of salty tears. John responded to the kiss, but didn't move otherwise. He was astonished and happy and terribly afraid that he'd spook Sherlock.

"Touch me." Sherlock begged. 

John slowly moved his hands, one into Sherlock's hair, tugging lightly, the other to Sherlock's chest. He caressed Sherlock gently, moving his hands to Sherlock's back as he bent to kiss John again. John pulled Sherlock onto him so they lay chest to chest, kissing and exploring. John risked touching Sherlock's arse and Sherlock moaned appreciatively. "Here." John said. "Let's flip over." And he carefully rolled Sherlock onto his back and levered himself on top. He rubbed his erection against Sherlock's and the other man gasped. "OK?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock had both hands on John's arse now, as he ground his hips up against John. His breath quickened. 

John kissed his neck – he'd always wanted to do that, run his lips over that long, lovely neck. He pushed himself up, one hand on the bed, the other on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing him into the mattress. He picked up one of Sherlock's legs and pushed it up around John's waist, it was easier to frot against each other this way. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again...

Sherlock suddenly grabbed hold of John's head, forcing him away, smashing his face into the mattress, twisting his body out from under John. John couldn't breathe. He struggled trying to break Sherlock's iron grip – he was really putting all his weight into it. John started feeling dizzy from lack of oxygen. He braced with his legs and and managed to turn over and gulp at the air. "Stop..." John started to say, but Sherlock fought John wildly. Sherlock suddenly had a hand around John's throat and John struggled harder, more frantically. Sherlock's fingers dug into his throat and John thought he might crush his trachea. He managed to break Sherlock's hold and scrabbled up onto his knees, thinking to back away. 

Sherlock's fist connected with John's chin. John went down, his head spinning. Sherlock leapt on him like a triumphant cougar and pinned him. John lay still, catching his breath, trying to shake off the punch. Slowly the pressure decreased and Sherlock released him.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock gasped. "I didn't mean to..." He was hyperventilating, hysterical, shaking violently.

John gathered Sherlock into his arms and held him. "Shhhh." John soothed. "You're OK."

"No...!"

"I'm fine, love. Relax. Shhhhh. It's just a panic attack. Shhhhh." Eventually his breathing slowed, but Sherlock continued to shake as if he were cold – so cold he'd never be warm again. John held him close and covered them with the duvet. He stroked the dark, tangled hair, cursing Trevor's name for what he'd done to Sherlock. John wished Mycroft had given him a turn when he'd punished that motherfucker.

Gradually he felt Sherlock's shivers dissipate, felt the tension in his muscles give way. Slowly, Sherlock's breathing evened out and deepened. He slept. John's jaw hurt, his head ached, his throat was raw and his mouth tasted terrible. He would be covered in bruises tomorrow. John let himself drift off.

The sound woke him. 

It was light in Sherlock's bedroom, sun streaming through the window. It was a beautiful morning.

John was alone in the bed.

He got up quickly, a feeling of dread in his gut. The flat was very quiet. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen or living room. Had he left, slamming the door? John walked back to the bathroom and knocked. No answer. He opened the door. 

Sherlock was in the bathtub. He had his dressing gown wrapped around him, but a triangle of his bare chest was exposed. He still wore the pajama bottoms. John's gun lay on the floor next to the tub where Sherlock had dropped it. Sherlock's eye's were open, a tear still rested on his lovely, alabaster cheek. There was blood and brains and bits of skull on the wall behind the tub. Genius brains splattered over the tile. 

John fell to his knees. 

He didn't find the note until later – after Lestrade had come and Anderson, and then the coroner. After the ambulance had taken the body away. Sherlock had left the note on John's bed, upstairs. 

 

\----

 

My dearest John, 

You are the love of my life. Maybe the love of all possible lives. I am yours, I have always been yours. That you should love me as well is incomprehensible. 

I have rewarded your love and devotion with nothing but pain and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about leaving you thinking I was dead for years. I wasn't strong enough to face how I felt about you, so I found a reason to leave instead. And I'm so sorry I didn't stay away. Your life would be infinitely better now, you'd have Mary and Rosie and you could be happy with them. But I was weak. I told myself that since you had her, you wouldn't think of me. And I wouldn't think of you. As if I could ever stop thinking of you.

I'm sorry I've had to leave you again, my John. I don't want to. But seeing what I could have been – what I SHOULD have been, that bright, beautiful, idiotic boy that loves you like you deserved to be loved – makes my life unbearable. I've been trying to imagine living with this, knowing how broken I am, knowing all the things I can't have. Knowing I will turn to drugs. Knowing that I will only hurt you and disappoint you over and over. Knowing that YOU know about Victor, know why I'm this way. It's intolerable.

I know leaving this way will hurt you. Again. But this is kinder than the pain I would cause you if I stayed. You are the kindest and best of men and I have never been good enough for you. I tried to be. Please, John, know that I tried to be better. For you. I wanted so much to grow old with you. I do love bees and I love your biscuits and nothing could be better than lying next to you in bed every night. I know how hard you've tried to help me. If anyone could have, it would have been you. 

This isn't your fault. You can't blame yourself. This is my decision and I make it knowing that you will hate me for it. So hate ME, not yourself. 

If there is a next life, maybe we can try again. Maybe we can be happy together then. If there are other versions of you and me out there somewhere, happy versions, then maybe that's enough. Maybe there is only so much happiness in the universe and our share went to those ridiculous kids who met so young and never looked back. I wish I could be yours like he is yours in our dream.

Goodbye, John. 

S.


	9. Aftermath

John startled awake – gasping, disoriented, lying on sheets damp with sweat. He glanced at his phone, the clock app glowing on its screen: 2:06 a.m.

He was alone in bed. 

"Oh god, no!" John cried. Where was Sherlock?! He'd had a terrible nightmare – John prayed it was a nightmare!

He leapt out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown with trembling fingers. He pulled it on as he stumbled into the hall. "Sherlock?"

The bog was empty! No horror in the tub. John took a second to let his racing heart calm.

The kitchen was dark. John was terrified by what he might find in the front room.

The nightmare had been so real, finding the note, sobbing over it ... it felt as real as the last twenty years he'd spent with Sherlock.

John forced himself into the front room. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, completely still. Was he asleep? Was he breathing? John couldn't see his chest move.

"Sherlock!" He cried in a panic and shook the still form. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock woke and John was dizzy with relief. "You're alive!" He said, choking on a sob. He kissed Sherlock's hand with desperate happiness. "You're alive!" He pulled Sherlock into his arms, crushing him, kissing him.

"John? John...." Sherlock kissed him back, his face alight with joy. "Of course I'm alive. John, what's wrong?"

"It was awful." John sat back, but didn't release Sherlock. "I had a nightmare... we were us, but we were different... we lived here in our flat, but we... we weren't together... we were friends... we tried to be more, but...."

Sherlock went pale. "When did we meet?" He asked, a strangled quality to his voice. "At Uni?"

"No! Years later! I was ...I was shot in Afghanistan... and invalided home. We met after that."

"And I was asexual and guarded... closed off emotionally."

"Yeah. Yes." John scoffed. "YOU asexual – I should have known it was just a dream."

"But it felt real." Sherlock said.

"Yes." John could still feel it pulling on him, as if the nightmare could drag him back into that other reality.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "I've dreamt of him – regularly when you were in Afghanistan." He said. 

"You never told me."

"You had enough to worry about. That Sherlock, he's... he's not right. He's... he keeps everything bottled up..."

"He was traumatized." John said. "It's not his fault."

"No. But he... he frightens me. I could have been him so easily!"

"No!"

"It's only because of you that I'm not."

"No! You could never be..."

"I could. John, I recognize him...in here." He touched his chest. "The drugs, the isolation, the selfishness... it's all in me."

"But it's not you." John clasped both of Sherlock's hands in his own. "It will NEVER be you."

"No." Sherlock said. He held very still while John leaned in. He smiled just before John kissed him. The kiss lingered between them, slowly erasing the immediacy of the nightmare.

"What are you doing out here?" John asked, still nuzzling Sherlock's jaw. "Why aren't you in bed with me?"

"After the fight we had... I didn't think you wanted me there." Sherlock clutched John's hands, holding them captive.

"Fight...?" It took John a long minute to remember – the nightmare had knocked it completely out of his mind.

But then the pain and betrayal he'd felt yesterday pierced his heart. It sucked the air from his lungs and he couldn't breathe.

"No!" Sherlock cried. "No, don't do that! John, come back! You love me! Just now, you loved me! Don't go away again."

"Go away?" John felt as if the room had turned sideways. He found he'd pulled his hands out of Sherlock's.

"I can see it in your face! John... talk to me, please!"

John stood and walked a few paces away, separating himself from his husband. The fight. It had been vicious. Devastating. John had been furious, beyond angry. He shouldn't have said anything when he was that angry. 

But he wasn't angry now – the relief he felt that it had all been a dream was still palpable. Maybe they could talk without it devolving into another screaming and shoving match. 

Better to get it over with. John took a deep breath. "Are you sleeping with him?" He asked quietly. "Fernando." Just saying that prick's name made John's chest hurt. 

"No. Never!"

"Do you want to be with him? Are you leaving me?" 

"I want to be with you, John. I've only ever wanted to be with you!"

Sherlock had said as much last night, but John hadn't credited it – seeing Sherlock's elegant fingers traversing Fernando's broad chest, Fernando's huge hand resting on Sherlock's hip, dark, sexy, smart Fernando smiling territorially at Sherlock, whispering in his ear... John had been rendered blind and deaf with fury. 

"Then why, Sherlock?" John asked. "Why throw yourself at that git? In front of me. Why?"

"Because you haven't touched me in 96 days!" Sherlock cried. "We've never gone more than three days, not when we're in the same city – but now... you just turn away. You're here, but you're not here." Sherlock passed his hand over his face, over deep lines etched by frustration. "You love me – I thought you'd stopped. But just now, it's obvious. You still love me."

"Yes. I love you." John said. "Why Fernando?"

"Because any time anyone else even glanced at me, you'd have me against the wall of the nearest alley within ten minutes."

"You wanted to make me jealous!?" 

"Clearly. Obviously!"

"Why?!"

"I love how you touch me whenever you're feeling possessive! John, you know I love it. I can FEEL how much you love me, feel it all over my body. That's all Fernando was about – I wanted you to look at me again. I don't want him, I want YOU back."

Sherlock was right, Fernando aside, things had changed between them. "Sherlock..." John didn't know what to say next. 

"What did I do wrong?" Sherlock begged. "John, please tell me. Let me at least try to fix it."

"You didn't do anything wrong." Other than Fernando.

"Then why? Why don't you want me anymore?"

"It's not that." John was tired of standing. He sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall, pulling his knees into his chest. He recognized this was a defensive posture. "It's not you."

Sherlock pushed himself off the couch and knelt in front of John. "What is it then? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. We just got older. I got older. I'm not ... I'm not the athlete I was when we met."

Sherlock went completely still. "Are you... sick?" He couldn't completely hide the fear in his voice.

John gave him a small, reassuring smile. "No." He said. "It's nothing like that."

Sherlock's relief was visible. He blew out the breath he'd been holding. His eyes still questioned John.

John sighed – how could he say this without sounding like a complete idiot? Most likely he couldn't. "Sherlock... you were a beautiful kid, all skinny and awkward and brilliant and so desperate to be taken seriously. And so, so sexy." John paused, remembering. "Every year since, you've grown more beautiful – more elegant, more self-assured, more striking... you always attracted attention but at some point the people looking at you changed." John sighed. "Remember Irene?"

"Of course."

"I came home one day and she was sitting on your lap..."

"That wasn't –" Sherlock protested.

"No, I know." John assured him. "I know that was one-sided. But I was struck by how well you looked together. You looked like you belonged with her." John paused trying to organize his sour thoughts into something coherent. "After that, there was George Fraser, Lady Persephone, Leland MacFarland, Stubby Jones-Price, Fernando ... they all wanted you and they all looked at me the same way – confused. They couldn't understand what someone like you saw in someone like me. On paper each are a better match for you." John waved off Sherlock's objections. "No, it didn't bother me. I thought it was funny. They would dismiss me, thinking how easily they could supplant me. Except Stubby – he wanted to know what secret hold I had on you."

"Idiot." Sherlock snarled.

"Yes." John agreed. "He was an idiot. You know, I always knew I was good enough for you, even if no one else could see it."

"John!"

"No, other people don't understand – they see you, the genius detective, striking and elegant. A man no one can take their eyes off of. And they see me, average, short, quiet, common..."

"John! No, listen!" Sherlock was outraged. He had covered John's hands with his own. "Stop being stupid. No one thinks that, and if they do, it just shows their own shortcomings."

John smiled sadly and turned his hands so Sherlock could hold them. "Most everyone thinks that. It really didn't bother me. Then one day I saw myself in the mirror... I'm not a soldier anymore. I'm barely a doctor... I'm... nothing...a middle-aged nobody. Most people assume I'm your assistant ..."

"John..."

"And then ...Fernando .... who's everything I'm not ... for the first time, I thought maybe I wasn't good enough anymore."

"That's ridiculous!"

"I never minded being short and ginger. I was good at sports, handy with my fists. I always had girlfriends. I did well enough in school. When you and I got together – it wasn't what I'd expected...."

"What had you expected?"

John shrugged. "A wife. A career. Kids, maybe. I don't regret choosing you instead, not for a second. But now I might as well be your assistant. I need something of my own. I've even thought about reenlisting..."

"John! You promised!"

"I know." The two tours John had served in Afghanistan had been hard on Sherlock – it had been hard for both of them, but especially for Sherlock. 

"I don't understand ... John, how did we get from not having sex to you going back to Afghanistan?!" There was an edge of hysteria in Sherlock's voice. He had REALLY hated John being away – and couldn't stand that John was in a war zone, that he could be hurt or killed at any moment.

"I'm not – I won't go back to Afghanistan. I don't want to be away from you, Sherlock. I just need more than following you around, being treated like your P.A. – and getting kidnapped by obsessed psychopaths. I need more. I need a job... or something..."

"Kidnapped..." Sherlock was staring at John intently, reading him. "This is because of him – Moriarty."

"No, Sherlock, don't trivialize this..."

"He said something to me, taunted me –" Sherlock sat back on his heels, releasing John's hands. "'How's Jawn?'" Sherlock imitated. "'Did I break your little pet? I think I broke him.' I thought he was just talking about the kidnapping, scaring you – I assured him you were fine. Soldiers don't scare easily. He just laughed." Sherlock looked at John intently. "He did something to you."

"He didn't, Sherlock. He didn't even talk to me. This isn't about him." John was frustrated. "You aren't listening to me."

"He knows what I'd be without you. How weak..."

"You're making this about YOU?" John threw up his hands. "Why am I surprised? Everything is always about you." John stood up. "I'm going back to bed." He announced his irritation rising.

"Hypnotic suggestion – it must be that!" Sherlock said. "Something that sat dormant in your psyche until it was activated... a word or phrase...the right set of circumstances...even a thought or mood..."

John walked away, wishing Sherlock would shut up. He'd been SO relieved to discover the sad, stunted relationship of the dream had been JUST a dream, for a minute things had been good between them again. 

But it was complicated. No relationship was perfect, and lately theirs had been downright dysfunctional. During the fight last night, John had been this close to throwing in the towel. Why hadn't he? 

Because – like that stupid nightmare proved – John still loved the bastard.

But sometimes he wondered what life would be like without Sherlock. They'd been together so long – almost John's entire adult life, longer than Sherlock had even been alive. What would John even do? 

Reenlist, probably. The Army could always use doctors. John had already started hitting the gym harder, getting back into active duty shape. It did feel good to be strong again. Why had he ever let that go?

John lingered in the toilet with his thoughts – he hoped Sherlock would be asleep when he emerged. He wasn't ready to continue this conversation to its logical end yet. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be.

He sat on the edge of the tub and suddenly his nightmare grabbed hold of him again. The gun had lay right where his foot was now. The ivory triangle of Sherlock's chest not covered by his dressing gown... if John reached out, he could touch it, feel his friend's flesh, still warm and vital, touch the tear on his cheek – the cheek John had kissed a thousand times. Ten thousand times... 

No! John couldn't let their relationship just slip away, like water through his fingers! He didn't want a life without Sherlock!

He buried his face in his hands. John didn't know what to do. Something HAD to change...

When he eventually emerged, the flat was quiet and dark. Sherlock was an indistinct shape in their bed. John walked round to his side and climbed in carefully. 

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. 

"Me too." John said. He felt Sherlock's hand touch him tentatively and he folded it into his own.

"I've handled all this very poorly." Sherlock said. "I'll do whatever you want. If you want to go back to work at hospital or if you want to see a counselor together..."

"Couples counseling?" John was surprised.

"Yes. If you think it would help."

"It can't hurt." John said.

"Then we'll do it. John... I miss you so much."

"I'm right here."

"I miss... us. The thing with Fernando was so stupid. As soon as I saw your face, I knew it was a horrible mistake. I didn't want to hurt you, John. I don't know what I thought... I didn't know what to do. I'm so ...lonely right now."

"Come here, love." John opened his arms and Sherlock fit himself in them, pressed against John's body. He fit perfectly – they had held each other like this for twenty years. "I should have tried to talk to you sooner. I just... I don't know what I want. I didn't know what to say. But I don't want to lose you. Whatever happens next, I want you with me."

John felt Sherlock shudder and sigh. "I've been so afraid that you're leaving me."

"Yeah... I came close last night..."

"Because I was an idiot."

"Yes. But you're MY idiot." Sherlock snuggled closer, his thigh grinding against John's groin in the process. "Has it really been 96 days?" John asked.

"Yes. Well, except for that time I blew you out back of that Thai restaurant... and then right after we solved the zip gun murders..."

"So more like three weeks then."

"Just twice in three months." Sherlock said. "That's not us." He shifted again. "I know it's stupid, I know you love me. But it feels like you don't. We've always had great sex, no matter what else is going on."

"I guess I've been a little depressed. I haven't felt good in a while."

"And I couldn't see beyond my own selfishness. I'm sorry, John!" Sherlock felt tense and trembling in his arms. "If... if you have to go back to Afghanistan... I understand..."

"Shhh" John soothed. "I'm not going back there."

"I know you would have done another tour if it weren't for me..."

"Maybe, but I have you. I won't reenlist as long as I have you. I don't want to." It wasn't a lie, John found he really didn't want to go back to the Army.

"If you hadn't dreamt of the other me – the other us – would you have left?"

"I don't know. Yes, probably." He felt Sherlock tremble again. "That shit with Fernando – it really threw me. I've watched men and women fall over themselves for you for years, I'd never seen you return – or even acknowledge – them. When you touched him... " John didn't finish the thought. He had felt sick. And been furious enough to kill the wanker – it was fortunate he hadn't had his gun with him. John had started to map out how to do it with his bare hands... and that gave him enough perspective to leave the room, leave the building, escape from Sherlock's knowing smirk into the brisk, London air.

"It was a stupid mistake." Sherlock said miserably.

"In my nightmare..." John continued. "You took your own life. I found you... I couldn't... I couldn't..." John choked on the words. 

Sherlock turned and stroked John's hair. "I've been such a fool. I haven't been here for you."

"You're here now." John said. He kissed his husband, his lover and companion for so long. Sherlock's mouth and lips and tongue and body moving beneath his own was so familiar, but still so exciting.

Sherlock's long fingers ranged across John's back, one hand straying to his hair, the other slipping into his pajamas to caress his arse. John felt his cock become interested, and then insistent. 

Sherlock maneuvered his thigh against John's erection. John pressed himself against it, frotting slowly. John gently tugged at Sherlock's hair, eliciting a low groan. Sherlock's hands became more urgent, grabbing and pulling at John's t-shirt. 

"John..." Sherlock moaned. "Oh god, I need you..." He yelped as John bit into his neck. "Oh! Fuck me! John, be inside me!" He wrapped his legs around John's hips.

John kissed him deeply – it felt great to desire, to want. It had been a long time... "Do you need to prepare?" He whispered into the dark locks.

"Mmmm... I'm good. Just lube."

"Turn over." John commanded, extricating himself from Sherlock's limbs and reaching for the drawer next to the bed.

"I want to look at you." Sherlock said as he ripped off his pajama bottoms.

"I love to make you cum with just my cock." John crooned. "For that, you're on your knees, your face in the mattress." He tossed a towel at Sherlock and fished the tube of lubricant from the drawer. Then he shucked his t-shirt and pants. He pulled Sherlock to his chest, savoring the skin-to-skin contact, and kissed him again. Sherlock tasted of cigarettes and cinnamon gum – he must have been smoking after their fight. 

John shoved him down on the bed, pressing between his shoulder blades. He put his own face next to Sherlock's and nipped his ear. "I trust you won't mistake me for Fernando." He whispered.

Sherlock uttered a noise half protest, half arousal – that became all arousal when John reached around and stroked Sherlock's cock.

"I thought we weren't touching that." He gasped.

"It fits so perfectly in my hand." John pouted. "But you're right." He released Sherlock's prick and positioned himself behind Sherlock, slapping an alabaster flank. He retrieved the lube and squeezed some onto his hand.

John was versatile, but Sherlock was a dedicated bottom. Unlike every other interaction where Sherlock preferred to be in control, in bed he never wanted control. He wanted John in control. That had never been a problem for John, he enjoyed topping – rather he loved topping Sherlock. As he entered his lover slowly, he thought this wasn't the time to experiment, for something new. This should be familiar, comforting for both of them. They had come so close to disaster... 

John forced the image of Sherlock and Fernando from his mind and focused on fucking his husband – guided by Sherlock's moans and entreaties, he began to thrust harder. Then he stopped and smiled as Sherlock began fucking himself on John's cock, pushing himself backwards, slamming his arse into John's groin. John worked his forefinger inside Sherlock's tight, pink hole and heard himself moaning as his cock rubbed against it. 

"More." Sherlock begged. "Please, John, give me more." And John bent his forefinger towards Sherlock's prostate and stroked lightly, compressing his cock even more tightly against the wall of Sherlock's rectum. Sherlock cried out and shoved himself back harder. "Oh, John! Oh, John!"

John removed his finger and, grasping Sherlock's hips firmly, began to fuck in earnest. As Sherlock's curses became incomprehensible, John felt his climax becoming inevitable. He pulled out and used his fingers to continue reaming Sherlock's gaping hole – at 43 his days of cumming twice in a session were long behind him – until Sherlock began to tense and shudder and shoot. Then, as Sherlock collapsed onto his belly, John pushed himself back in. Laying on Sherlock's back, he fucked his arse with brutal intensity until he too shot his load, seeding Sherlock's guts with moans of pleasure.

Slowly John came back to himself, realizing he was lying on Sherlock's back with his whole weight. He rolled off, pulling Sherlock onto his side, and splayed himself out, sweaty and spent. Sherlock the towel to wipe the sticky ejaculate from his chest. He handed it off to John, who swiped at the lube and cum coating his cock then tossed it onto the floor. Sherlock turned towards John and laid his hand on John's abdomen.

"You've been working out." Sherlock said.

"Mmmm." John put his hand over Sherlock's and interlaced their fingers.

"It feels good." 

A wave of sadness washed over John – sadness filled with so much: how strong and fit he'd been, how Sherlock had loved that young, athletic body, how he'd aged into such a plain, bland nothingness, how close he'd come to losing Sherlock, the memory of finding that other Sherlock dead, lost to him forever, how little he had left of himself – that other John, he'd lost Sherlock, had never HAD Sherlock the way he did, but he knew himself, knew his abilities, his value. That John had so much to offer. Do I? John wondered. He couldn't think of a single thing.

He felt the itch of tears in his eyes. He covered them with his hand – how long had it been since he'd cried after cumming? Even his self-pity was boring.

This was why he'd been resisting intimacy – this feeling of utter uselessness that overtook him afterwards. It had confused and upset him and he'd hidden it from Sherlock.

But it was too late to hide it now. "John?" Sherlock asked. "What's wrong?" The concern in his voice made John's tears come faster.

John turned away from his lover and curled into himself, drawing his knees up and his elbows in, his hands over his face. He felt Sherlock press himself against his back and wrap his arm tightly across John's own. With his other hand he stroked John's hair and he whispered soothing words. 

Eventually, John got hold of himself. He unfolded and lay on his back. Sherlock lay next to him, propped up on his elbow, waiting. He looked tired – he was deep in his refractory period and would usually be long asleep by now.

"I need..." John started... he knew what he needed to do, but he didn't want to do it. And he didn't know how to tell Sherlock. 

"It's ok, John, whatever you need."

John gathered his resolve. "I need some time." He said. "Away."

Sherlock frowned. "Away? From London?" He asked.

John could see Sherlock packing his bags in his mind, considering destinations.... 

"No. Away from you." He'd finally said it. John held his breath waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

It was several long seconds before Sherlock spoke, and when he did, he sounded like he was trying to keep his voice from breaking. 

"Why?" He asked.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John cried, pulling him into an embrace. "It's not you. I love you, the same as I've always loved you!" Sherlock clung to him, his breathing rough with emotion. "I don't want us to end, I don't want to divorce." John kissed Sherlock's head. "I just need some time, some space for myself – everything I have now is yours, everything I do is for you... I need to find myself again."

"You can't do that here?" Sherlock implored. "I'll leave you alone. Give you all the space you need..."

"I haven't been able to... give me a week. Just a week, Sherlock."

"What about couples counseling?"

"You weren't serious about that."

"I am, John!" Sherlock's voice trembled. "I want to do it. I've known something was wrong, but I didn't know what to do – and then what I did made everything worse. I want to learn how to be a better partner."

"Shhhh." John soothed Sherlock's panic. "Ok, I'll get a referral for a counselor for us in the morning. We'll do it."

Sherlock lay back down on John's chest, but he didn't relax. "Where will you go?" He asked.

"I don't know."

"Can I text you?"

"No. Not unless I text you first." Even when he had been in Afghanistan, Sherlock had texted him at least 20 times a day.

"I hate this plan."

"I know."

"It will be longer than a week." Sherlock said.

"Probably." John agreed.

"What will I do without you?"

John smiled. "What you always do - be brilliant. And look forward to me coming home."

"You WILL come home?"

"Yes. The one thing I DO know is that I love you and I love US. I'm coming back – unless you decide you don't want me."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Maybe Fernando is the one for you after all."

"Don't joke about it. I can't stand it right now."

"I'm sorry. Go to sleep, you can hardly keep your eyes open."

"How can I possibly sleep? You're going away in a few hours!"

"Let's sleep together. Let's dream of our little cottage with the apiaries."

"Mmmm...my bees." 

John watched Sherlock close his eyes and drift off. He closed his own eyes and prayed that he'd dream of the bees, of a long, happy life spent with his Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic – a bit bittersweet. I find those are the ones that stick with me longest.


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